


Remembrance

by Blue_Sunshine



Series: The Desert Storm [7]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Diplomacy, Galactic Republic, Gen, Jedha, Jedi Culture, Kyber Crystals, Languages, Mandalorian Culture, Master & Padawan Relationship(s), Padawan training, The Dark Side of the Force, The Force, Time Travel, WARNING: Graphic Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-15
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2020-01-13 04:07:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 28,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18461159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_Sunshine/pseuds/Blue_Sunshine
Summary: There are things you know that you can't remember, and things you remember which you wish you did not know.





	1. Chapter 1

Obi-Wan slides out of the air-cab and winces at the sudden brightness of full day. The driver hardly waits for the door to snick closed before veering off, nearly singeing the padawan with the rear thrusters.

“ _Besom_.” Obi-Wan mutters a slur after the vapor trail, and starts limping back towards the Temple. The milling passer-by that are always present in the Temple district glance at him as he passes through, and Obi-Wan is glad that for the moment, his padawan braid is looped in on itself and bound into a leather sleeve behind his ear, unrecognizable for what it actually was.

The last thing he wants is to be accosted right now. After a month in the fire-to-frying-pan care of Jango Fett, he was poorly equipped to deal with any sort of sudden altercation in a calm and rational manner.

The Council would not be happy with him if he accidentally sent someone to the hospital right on the front steps of the temple.

He’s focusing hard enough on not reacting to the press of a crowd, still remembering the hint-less attack he’d suffered in a market on Krownest, that he misses completely the presence of his master until the man is standing right in front of him.

“ _Mar’e! Me’vaar ti gar_?” Master Ben asks, standing an arms length away while Obi-Wan startles, flinching for a blaster he isn’t carrying and didn’t like in the first place.

“Uh… _naas_?” Obi-Wan replies, his grasp of mandalorian still hesitant, no matter how many drills Fett ran him through for slipping up.

“Then why are you limping?” His master inquires, taking pity on his linguistic skills in favor of direct responses.

“I fell off a transport.” Obi-Wan explains. “I am very bruised.”

“You fell?”

“I was pushed.”

“Pushed.” His master repeats, prompting.

“By Jango Fett.”

“Why?”

“We were being shot at.”

“Why?”

“I…. I don’t actually know.” Obi-Wan admits. “Fett’s business stayed Fett’s business. I was just there so he could-“

“Ensure you were instilled with proper mandalorian values?” Master Ben finishes for him, amused. “And a primer in the language, apparently.”

“If I’m going to be a Mandalorian Jedi,” Obi-Wan says. “He says I’d better damn be a _Mandalorian_ Jedi.”

“He _is_ the _Mand’alor_.” Master Ben concedes. “So how was it, really?”

“It was…” Obi-Wan considers his response. In some ways, training with Jango Fett was easier than training with his master. In other ways, it was a hell of a lot harder. Fett allowed him more leeway, but forgave far fewer mistakes. Master Ben cared more about what he did than about how well he did it. Fett didn’t care what he did, so long as he did it really _fucking_ well. “Different?” Obi-Wan offers. “But…good for me, I think.”

Fett had barely let him touch a lightsaber, training him instead on blasters and rifles and hand-to-hand; Obi-Wan held a Jedi’s instinctive dislike for blasters, but Fett had taught him a valuable lesson that would apply to any weapon: _It is not enough to defeat your opponent. You must be better than him. I could kill him with this weapon, but why, when I can completely outclass him? A shooter aims for the body. A sniper aims for the head. A Mandalorian aims for the ability, Jed’ika. I can as easily take away their ability to run or hold a weapon as I can their life_. _Your skills give you your choices. To better one is to better the other_.

Jedi philosophy and Mandalorian philosophy differed wildly, and yet both delved into the soul, into what it meant to be alive, and to live well and with purpose. And Fett was a well-educated man. Mandalorians, like the Jedi, believed that to live was to learn.

Language and philosophy had been instructed hand in hand – often while Obi-Wan was also physically engaged. It was every bit as intense as his Master’s lessons but far less enduring. Fett had been busy, and they had ferried themselves to and from several worlds, Obi-Wan studying whatever Fett handed to him while Fett went off to conduct his business, and training only when Fett had the time.

“A resoundingly clear and evocative assessment, Obi-Wan.” His master deadpans, and Obi-Wan rolls his eyes before remembering who he was dealing with.

“ _Ni ceta_ , _Baji’buir_.” Obi-Wan apologizes.

“Already forgiven, padawan.” Master Ben shakes his head. “I suppose he proved to be a dreadful influence on your manners. We’ll have to get that reigned in before we appear before the Council.”

“We have to appear before the Council?”

“Oh, yes, have I not mentioned?” Master Ben smiles, that sort of cracking wide smile he gets when things are going _badly_. “I’m under suspension and you are labelled as missing in action. The Council was not amused by the fact that an outsider won the contest and absconded with my student for a month, particularly given that the outsider was Jango Fett.”

“But he’s the _Mand’alor_!” Obi-Wan protests. “And the rules left the challenge open! And I’m _jahaala_!”

“Bruised to the point of limping is not _jahaala_ , _Verdibir_.” Master Ben corrects him, though it takes Obi-Wan a minute to parse out the direct translation of the moniker he’s just been given. Mandalorian did not have a word that quite translated to Padawan, but _soldier-student_ made the point well enough. “Now, we should probably try and stick with Basic before the council, padawan mine. _Ni skanah sa cuyir, vi nayc gotal'ur dush'shya_.”

“ _Shi ma ni oyacir_ …” Obi-Wan grumbles, and his master laughs softly.

“That phrase is a little dramatic for a council meeting, padawan.” Master Ben smiles, amused.

“For you, maybe.” Obi-Wan retorts.

~*~

“You’re _mandalorian_.” Master Yan Dooku accuses, stopping them on their way to the Council Chamber like a mountain in the path of a stream.

“Master Dooku, it’s good to see you in temple.” Ben nods, stiffening instinctively before reminding himself _not_ to do so. Dooku would jump to the wrong conclusion. “And yes, I am. So to speak. I am a Jedi first and foremost, as we all should be.”

Something in Dooku’s countenance pinches at the remark, and Ben feels a cold ache press through his chest. Dooku’s slipping away, even now, for all that Ben had attempted to draw him back towards the temple, attempted to interest him in teaching, in training, in even simple conversation, a place to vent what dissatisfies him so, though he never did.

“Mandalorian enough to give your padawan to _Jango Fett_.” Dooku practically sneers, and Ben reels back a little.

“Give?” Ben replies coldly. “No. Fett won that right in contest, as anyone can. You of all people should be aware of his skills, Master Dooku.”

Dooku flinches, face coloring.

“I’m not certain I understand your objection.” Ben offers, the first flash of temper cooling enough to rational thought to prevail. “Fett and the True Mandalorians were innocent of the crime you sentenced them for.”

“He murdered six Jedi.” Dooku replies icily.

“You murdered far more True Mandalorians than that.” Ben returns, just as whip-sharp.

Dooku draws himself up and back, the epitome of strength and dignity a poor illusion for the churning _guilt-anger_ that seeps off of him in the Force before being brutally repressed.

“I am surprised you dared approach me, then.” Dooku murmurs, and Ben reaches out to lay a hand on Obi-Wan’s shoulder before his padawan lets loose the stubborn indignation rising up through him and sizzling down their mental bond.

“Dared?” Ben forces himself to relax. “Master Dooku, are you implying I should have feared you? You are not a _savage_. You made a mistake.” Ben absolves him, as he knows the master never absolved himself, and hopes against all dread that it might make a difference. “You were pressured and lied to and the cost was higher than anyone should bear.”

Shock, simple and clean and cutting in the force, breaking through the chill shadow of darkness.

“It cost me my padawan.” Master Dooku confesses bitterly, and then immediately stiffens, not having meant to.

“No it didn’t!” Obi-Wan finally snaps, and Ben tightens his grip just a little, for all the good it did him. His padawan colors, but doesn’t back down now that he has stepped forward. Ben experiences a momentary flash of self-incrimination to realize that the move is so like _Anakin_ , and that Anakin must have learned such obstinance from _Ben_. “Your padawan is lost, not dead.” Obi-Wan says. “You’re her master. She wasn’t taken from you – you gave her up. You gave up on her. If you think that’s _wrong_ , then it is _your_ responsibility to find her and earn her back. You’re her master. You’re supposed to _fight_ for her.”

Ben can feel his own ears redden slightly at the absolute certainty Obi-Wan expresses in that, directed from Obi-Wan’s own experience.

Yan Dooku stares down at the teenling, expression inscrutable, shields drawn too tightly now to read in the Force. After a minute, two, he turns and walks away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mar’e! Me’vaar ti gar = about time! What’s your situation/ what’s up with you?  
> Naas - nothing  
> Ni ceta – sorry/ I’m sorry  
> Baji’buir = teacher-guardian / Master  
> Jahaala = well, healthy  
> Ni skanah sa cuyir, vi nayc gotal'ur dush'shya. = they dislike me enough as it is, let’s not make it worse.  
> Shi ma ni oyacir = (literally: only if I live) ie; I don’t have to do this if I die OR I’m excused if I’m dead OR death would be preferable.


	2. Chapter 2

Obi-Wan has been summoned before the Council far too often for his liking ever since he released his report on the state of the Order. Not the full Council, but more often than not he was brought before two or three so that they could pick at his data and explore how he had found what he had found, and where he had found it –

He gathered, after the third or fourth time of this, that the Councilors had discovered precisely how difficult such research was to navigate in the archives. As such, they had turned to him as a _subject matter expert_ , which was far more maddening and nerve-wracking than it was an honor. Even Madame Jocasta Nu had summoned him on one occasion, to walk her through his research methods even as she indignantly remarked upon the flawless upkeep of her records.

Her only concession had been to declare that she was summoning a coder to re-write the algorithms regarding Temple records as _some people_ found the matrix too difficult as it was.

The only one who hadn’t thoroughly examined and cross-examined him was Master Yoda.

“Trust you, I do.” Master Yoda had said. “Question that, why should I?”

He had looked so terribly old, drooping where he stood, and Obi-Wan had given in to the urge to lean down and hug the ancient Master, who had been as surprised as he could be.

“We know now, Master Yoda.” Obi-Wan had promised. “So trust me when I say this too: We will not be the last of us. But we _must_ change.”

“Follow the way of your master, you do.” Yoda had commented sagely, and then cackled like a madman, to Obi-Wan’s utter consternation.

“Padawan Kenobi.” Yarael Poof greets them as they enter the chamber. “Naasade.” He welcomes less kindly. Master Ben looks supremely unbothered, but Obi-Wan bristles at the blatant disrespect, councilor or not.

“Masters.” Master Ben says serenely, not bowing as he comes to the center of the circle.

The passive-aggressive tension in the room could be played like a harp, if one reached out in the Force to tug on the strands. Following his master’s example, Obi-Wan also refuses to bow, earning a few of those familiar frowns of disapproval for himself.

“Returned safely to us, has Padawan Kenobi.” Master Yaddle remarks calmly, doing a remarkable job of pretending she was not irritated with the entirety of all of their childish behaviors. “Find your leave from the Temple, how did you, padawan?”

“Educational, Master Yaddle.” Obi-Wan bows directly to her. “There is as much wisdom to be found outside the temple as there is within, and I was given a glimpse of it.”

“Wise, was your teacher?” Master Rancisis inquires, and Obi-Wan turns to him.

“Yes, Master.” Obi-Wan answers with certainty. “The _Mand’alor_ was very wise. He has experienced much, and so has many lessons to pass on. His perspective is very different than that of my teachers here, and learning to see as others see is a valuable skill. I benefited well from my absence.”

If Master Ben’s face had leaked one iota of the snickering laugh Obi-Wan could feel tickling along their bond, Obi-Wan would have kicked the older man, but as it was, he remained passive, ignoring the humor his Master found in his prim replies.

 _Something I learned from you!_ Obi-Wan accuses, aggressively shoving the thought down their connection. Whether the words make it through, or merely an impression, his master’s amusement only grows.

“Did he not attempt to contradict your Jedi training?” Master Tiin inquires. “As I understand it, Jango Fett abhors the Jedi. His…” The master pauses, considering his words. “…temporary assumption of your training seemed most untoward, given his history.”

“Daily, Master Tiin.” Obi-Wan replies. “But what I choose to believe and the codes I uphold are solely up to me, regardless of the contradictions of my many mentors.”

“Well said, Padawan Kenobi.” Master Rancisis smiles with thin green lips and a gentle sway of silver hair. “I take it then that you are not and have not been under duress, and that we can settle this matter of your master’s duty of care?”

Obi-Wan bits down on his cheek so as not to scoff, because _duress_ describes his time with Jango Fett very well, but Obi-Wan doesn’t mean it _badly_.

“ _Mand’alor_ Jango Fett is a man of honor, Masters.” Obi-Wan states clearly. “And it was an honor to be personally trained by him.”

“Despite the fact that you had no choice in the matter?” Master Koon asks, which surprises Obi-Wan, because Koon had always seemed ambivalent in regards to Master Ben’s affairs.

“I had a choice.” Obi-Wan replies. “I always have a choice.”

“Your master-“ Master Poof starts, and Obi-Wan can’t bite his cheek hard enough to stop from cutting him off.

“My Master always takes into account _my_ choices.” Obi-Wan snaps. A quelling hand lifts to settle on his shoulder, a warm, comforting weight, but also a warning, and a censure. Obi-Wan bows his head in quiet contrition.

“An accounting of your absence, will you provide, Padawan Kenobi. Then settled, this matter is.” Master Yoda says. “Others, we have to discuss.”

“Settled?” Obi-Wan looks up sharply, and his master squeezes his shoulder again. “This council put my master on suspension without due cause.”

“ _Obi-Wan_.” Master Ben whispers sharply.

“They punished you for a crime that did not exist and they _keep_ punishing you for a crime that does not exist!” Obi-Wan protests.

“Padawan.” Master Ben says sharply. “ _Enough_.” He turns towards the Council. “Apologies, Masters. My padawan has only just returned, and he is tired.”

Obi-Wan can feel his face burn, not only for the excuse but also because his master is right, and Obi-Wan should never have had such an outburst in front of the High Council, justified anger or not.

“So it seems.” Master Windu remarks, and gestures their dismissal.

Obi-Wan ducks his head as his master steers him out of the chamber.

~*~

“Obi-Wan! _Obi-Wan_!” Shmi looks on in exasperation as Anakin shrieks shrilly, dashing off, and throws himself at the teenling slinking in his master’s shadow.

The way Obi-Wan lights up when he spies the four-year old, however, and leans down to scoop him into the air, warms her heart and lifts her spirits. She does not pursue, and in short order Ben slips away from the boys and moves to join her in her observation.

“How did the arraignment go?” Shmi inquires quietly, watching Obi-Wan lift one hand to accentuate a story, Anakin propped expertly on his hip, and the little boys eyes going wide with mesmerization.

“It was hardly a trial.” Ben huffs, lifting a hand to smooth over his beard in consideration. “A Mandalorian induction did very little for Obi-Wan’s temper. He rather had a bone to pick with the council.”

“I’m sure they were quite surprised to discover that your poor padawan _has_ a temper.” Shmi remarks wryly.

“Please stop calling him my ‘poor padawan’. It only adds fuel to the fire.” Ben complains, and Shmi feels her lips twist into a quiet smile. Down the hall, Anakin leans up to whisper in the teenagers ear and Obi-Wan’s laugh bounces down the corridor.

“Oh dear.” Shmi sighs.

“What?” Ben lifts a brow. “What was that?”

“Anakin telling Obi-Wan things that _he_ should not have heard in the first place.” Shmi grumbles. “Shaak will not be pleased.”

“Obi-Wan wouldn’t tell a soul.” Ben assures her. Shmi shakes her head, as she knows this already.

“Anakin tells _everyone_.” Shmi replies dryly, and Ben snickers softly at her misfortune. She studies the lines of his face, and reaches out to lay a hand on his wrist. He glances down, and then turns his palm to meet hers, warmth dancing at the point of contact.

 _Koutovur_ is an Amatakkan word that Shmi does not know the translation for in any other language, but it is an apt a word as she can find for the state of being that Ben embodies. It is not loneliness or lust, but a deep unanswered need to simply connect, to simply _be_ with another person. It was the word made for the need of the bonds slaves formed in chill holds and deep pits, clinging to each other’s hands in the dark, being embraced in the arms of strangers under strange stars and knowing that amidst all else, here is harbor.

“Would you like to have tea?” Shmi offers, after a minute. He has done much for her, and for her son, and still she does not know why. She does not understand the ghosts behind his eyes when he looks at the Skywalkers. But he has brought her to freedom, to the Order, to Shaak Ti, and to a future that she holds with her own hands, and makes of her own design.

There is a part of her that still wants to cower away from him, and part of her that wants him to disappear, that she might not feel a debt to him that gnaws on her certainty and feeds her doubts and whispers of the memory of chains; but there is a greater part of her that recognizes that he is only a man, and that he is a man who could-be-and-now-is her friend. He wants nothing from her or for her but her health and her happiness, and he is perhaps, at times, more afraid of her than she ever has been of him.

A former slave looks at a man and fears for her body and her life. Ben looks at Shmi like he’s afraid for his soul, like she could damn him and condemn him with nothing more than a word, and he might shatter.

That look is power in her hands, and it is a sickly thing that she knows she does not want.

She is not Depur.

“I would truly enjoy nothing more.” Ben says, gently squeezing her fingers. “But I must see to my padawan, who is no doubt expecting quite the severe lecture for his outbursts in the Council Chamber.”

“Is he going to be receiving such a lecture?” Shmi lifts a doubtful brow. She is not sure she has yet heard Ben actually reprimanding his padawan for anything. She’d worry for Obi-Wan’s discipline if not for the fact that the boy reprimands himself far worse than his master ever would.

“Oh, of course not.” Ben remarks gamely. “The entire display was quite touching, in point of fact. But one must keep up appearances.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

“Frown a little more deeply, Master Windu, and that expression will permanently affix itself to your face.” Shaak Ti calls calmly, guiding Shmi through a shii-cho excersize. The salle is empty, save the two of them, though it was not so when they arrived. The Council may have accepted Shaak Ti’s unorthodox padawan, but the rest of the Temple had yet to follow suit.

The younger Master does frown more deeply for her commentary, and then attempts to relax his face, which tells her more than anything that he is about to broach a truce. Master Windu, young as he was, had little patience for people, particularly people who gave him a headache, and _everyone_ gave a Harun Kal who saw shatterpoints a headache. Some just more so than most.

He wasn’t unkind, but he did not always make an effort to be gentle in the way he dealt with others.

“If you can spare the attention, I would like to ask you to allow my padawan to join your lesson, Master Ti.” Windu calls out flatly, eyes solemn. Shaak Ti pauses, stepping back, and Shmi lowers her training blade, her sharp brown eyes lighting on the councilor considerately. He shifts slightly under her gaze in discomfort. Shaak Ti’s padawan tends to have that effect.

“No one in my care has ever wanted for my attention, Master Windu. No matter the circumstances.” Shaak replies coolly. His brow pinches again, but he nods, turning back out to the corridor and summoning his padawan.

Shaak Ti shares a quick glance with Shmi, who lifts a pointed brow. _He’s worried._

Shaak Ti tips her head in acknowledgement. _He has reason to be._

Obi-Wan’s report was not yet released to the general population of the Jedi Order, but Shmi had been Ben’s confidant, when he worried about how much he had placed on the boys shoulders, and Shaak had been Shmi’s, when she needed to voice her thoughts and concerns on the matter come to light. That the Council had then quietly reinstated Shaak Ti’s status as a Jedi Master and as a member of the Reconciliation Council, implicitly approving of her padawan had spoken volumes to their circumstances.

Padawan Depa Billaba strides into the room with a decisive and proud demeanor, and nods politely to Shaak Ti and Shmi. “Master Ti, Padawan Skywalker.”

Shaak lifts a hand to her lips to press down an inappropriate smile. If the young woman were any more stiff and haughty, her own puffed up head would knock her over. It was a stage most padawans reached, sooner or later, as they grew more senior and less doubtful. It was the stage in which most of them were re-taught humility and respect, hopefully before they ended up in the Halls of Healing. Confidence was necessary to the spirit – but arrogance was hazardous to ones health.

“My master says I’m to assist you in teaching Padawan Skywalker the _elementary_ skills of a lightsaber, Master Ti.” Padawan Billaba remarks crisply, and Shaak Ti firmly reminds herself that she should not spoil the game by smiling, pressing her fingers a little more firmly against her lips. She glances at Master Windu, who offers her a shrug and an expression that very clearly stated: _what else was there to do_?

_We build them up_ , Shaak Ti tilts her montrals in acknowledgement to his predicament. _Sometimes, we also have to bring them back down_.

Shaak looks to Shmi, who is offering her the flattest gaze she can muster, dark eyes utterly unimpressed.

“We’ll start slowly.” Shaak Ti says, with a pointedly straight stare at Shmi. The last thing she needs is for her padawan to break the poor unsuspecting teenagers nose. “I am certain, Padawan Billaba, that we have much to learn from each other.”

~*~

“Quinlan, you cheat!” Bant shrieks, throwing her cards at him. He dodges, protesting indignantly.

“I’m wearing gloves! I’m wearing gloves, Bantling, stop!” She yanks Siri’s cars from her hand and throws them as well, followed by a colorful pillow. “Hey!” He crawls under the edge of the table. “Obi-Wan! Help me!”

The red-headed boy is too busy laughing, Anakin cheering Bant on from his perch on the back of the sofa, passing her another throw pillow.

“I’m not talking about your gloves you dough-head!” Bant bellows. “I’m talking about the card you stashed _in_ your glove!”

“Did not!”

“Did too!”

“Prove it!” Quinlan crawls under Siri’s legs and dashes for the safety of the kitchen, getting smacked right in the rear with the second pillow and grunting as he slipped and tumbled on the tile.

“Bant – maybe you could stop throwing things I’ll have to clean up.” Obi-Wan catches his breath, tugging on the Mon Calamari’s sleeve. “Put down the tea-pot. Please.”

“He’s a cheat!” Bant grumbles, reluctantly putting down the silver tea-pot. “No good rotten dishonorable-“

“He’s _Quinlan_.” Siri points out, snatching a few of the offender’s candy pieces.

“Ugh. _Quinlan_!” Bant huff, crossing her arms and steaming, throwing herself back down in her seat.

“Ugh. _Quinlan_!” Anakin copies her, and then dramatically flings himself down onto the cushions and bursts into giggles. Obi-Wan laughs and grabs the boy ankle, earning a squeal before Anakin scrambles off the couch to avoid tickling fingers and bolts for the kitchen as well. “Hide me!”

“I don’t know, buddy.” Quinlan says, drawling. “You kinda sold me out earlier.”

“Please! Pleaseplease-ple- _eeeeeeh_ k!” He shrieks when Obi-Wan dives into the kitchenette, scooping him up and spinning around. “ _Kanwon see wa few_ -!”

“Oya! _Language_ , Anakin!”

“He doesn’t have to speak Basic.” Siri points out sharply, blonde head whipping around while she hastily shoved the candies into her robe pockets before Quinlan came back out. “That’s not fair to make him when it’s not his first tongue.”

“ _Not_ what I meant, Siri.” Obi-Wan retorts, hanging a red faced and grinning Anakin up by the ankles.

“My heads gonna explode!” Anakin complains, wriggling to try and escape.

“Well…”Obi-Wan drawls, and swings the boy back up into his arms in a maneuver that has all the other teenlings jumping in alarm. “We can’t have that, can we?”

“Nope!” Anakin crows, half-slung over Obi-Wan’s shoulder. “Do that again!”

“ _Don’t_ do that again!” The other three cry, lurching.

“Jeez, Obi-Wan, you’re gonna crack his head open!” Quinlan comments, pulling himself upright and lounging against the counter.

“Or snap his neck.” Siri adds.

“Or his leg.” Bant finishes, eyes wide with concern.

Anakin rolls his eyes. “Obi-Wan won’t do that! Obi-Wan _loves_ me!”

Obi-Wan blushes, and Quinlan thinks it’s the most adorable thing in the world. “ _Aww_.” The kiffar padawan coos. Obi-Wan shoots him a venomous blue-green glower. Quinlan flashes him a teasing grin.

“If we’re playing another round, I am not the one picking up all those cards.” Obi-Wan mutters, putting Anakin down, though the four year old pouts, clinging to his hand. Quinlan bets that if he pouts for another thirty seconds, Obi-Wan will cave in and pick him back up.

“We are not playing another round.” Bant declares. “Some of us can’t be trusted.”

Quinlan flashes her a cheeky smile. “Bant, darling, star in my sky-“

“ _Ugh_!” Siri pretends to retch.

“treasure of all pink treasures-“

“I _will_ throw this tea-pot at you!” Bant warns.

“You will not!” Obi-Wan dives for the table to rescue the bulbous silver pot, Anakin still clinging on. “This is my masters!”

“How can you not _trust_ me?” Quinlan bats his lashes like the women in holo-dramas. He’s not as endearing as a thick-lashed nautolan, but the imitation is obvious.

Bant lifts one warning finger and points it sharply at him. “ _No_.” She says firmly, and Quinlan pouts, sticking out his lower lip. Anakin giggles, leaning into Obi-Wan’s leg, and the red-head sets down the tea-pot and scoops the four-year old back up like a kowakian monkey-lizard.

_Called it_ , Quinlan thinks.

“I can’t play another round anyways.” Siri says, standing up, hands shoved into her pockets in an attempt to hide the bulges of her thievery. “Master Adi wants me to go over the senate requests with her. I’m learning how to prioritize them.” She preens a little.

“Sounds dull.” Quinlan comments.

“Quinlan!” Bant scolds.

“Sounds tedious.” Obi-Wan remarks. “But it’s also important. It affects who gets our assistance, and how quickly, and it affects which missions we’re assigned.” He shoots a pointed look at Quinlan, who does wince and offer the youngest girl a sheepish look. Quinlan was nearly a senior padawan – he forgets sometimes how easy it is to doubt yourself when you’re her age, and when you’ve only just been chosen by your master.

Siri nods back at him, a quick and decisive forgiveness, and Quinlan decides he won’t protest her stealing his candy pieces, given the givens.

“How about we play catch the monkey instead?” Quinlan offers, once Siri is on her way out. Bant looks affronted, but Obi-Wan lights up.

“What monkey?” Anakin asks.


	4. Chapter 4

“The fault of our teachings as they exist,” Plo Koon says, in the secluded safety of a closed salle. “Is that there are some things you simply cannot do without emotion. Clarity of mind provides focus, but it also sacrifices power. Emotion is the essence of sentience, and in this case, it is also fuel.”

“Such as with the _vapaad_.” Ben nods. “But the _vapaad_ doesn’t just touch emotion – it touches darkness.”

“Does it?” Master Koon challenges him. “It is fueled by anger, but darkness? Darkness is a choice.”

“Within the Force, anger connects to much of what embodies the Dark Side.” Ben counters. “Attempting to draw on it is like tapping a spile into the wall of a dam.”

“But it can be done.” Plo says.

“Yes.” Ben agrees. “By a select few.”

“You understand the _vapaad_ , Master Naasade.” Plo remarks. “That should make this endeavor…simpler.”

Ben notes that the older master did not say _easier_. “I would hope.” Ben says.

“As would I.” Plo huffs softly, settling his hands meditatively on his knees, seated across from each other as they were. “I have never attempted to teach this technique to anyone who is not Kel Dor. Even then, practitioners are few and far between. It is a difficult skill, and not one the orthodoxy approves of.”

“Because of its likeness to Dark Lightning.” Ben surmises, remembering his own stark flash of terror with a chill.

“Just so.” Plo nods gravely. “Like _vapaad_ , Emerald Lightning draws on emotion, draws on the deeper, rawer parts of ourselves, opening connections to the Force in ways that Jedi are taught to avoid – and with good reason.”

“Connecting yourself to the collective emotion of the galaxy _is_ a good way to go insane.” Ben says wryly, wise in experience in the matter. Plo hums his response, feeling curious in the Force, and cautious, perhaps sensing that there are depths beneath those callous words. “So what emotion does Emerald Lightning draw on?”

Plo Koon still hesitates, mulling over his internal concerns, and Ben waits him out. “In many ways, Emerald Lightning is like Dark Lightning, but in essence, they are exact opposites. Dark Lightning, from all I have studied, is generated by hate, by a fierce _desire_ to cause others pain, to watch them burn and break. Emerald Lightning is the inverse. It is generated when you _accept_ pain, when suffering and grief consume you – you gather it up, you draw it in until you are burning with it, and then you unleash it on the world.”

“I’m surprised I never discovered it by accident.” Ben mutters with feeling.

“I am not.” Plo comments, surprising him. “From what I know of you, Master Naasade, you take much into yourself, and you keep it in. You _do not_ let it out.” He rumbles.

“I have, before.” Ben mentions, feeling oddly shy before the older master’s examination. Plo Koon’s solemn regard had always had its effects on Ben. In his youth, it had made him nervous; in knighthood, relieved, for Koon’s presence meant a burden shared; in war, it had offered him certainty, where he otherwise felt so little of it; here and now, it makes Ben feel his own youth, which so often felt like years beyond counting. “The last time I let it out…”

Ben hardly remembers tearing his landspeeder to shreds with his frustration, doesn’t remember what welled up inside his half-drunk, half-mad mind that had him screaming into the howl of a sandstorm. That hadn’t been the first time, but it had been the last.

“It’s simply best if I don’t.” Ben finishes.

“If you wish to learn this technique, Master Naasade,” Plo says, voice rumbling. “You will have to.”

~*~

Master Yoda reaches for solace, in his favorite garden near his favorite tree – a lifeform older than even he, under whose branches his Master had taught him his first lessons in the Force.

He does not find it.

“Frowning, you are. Wrinkly, it makes you.” Yaddle comments, ambling slowly up the little hill on which he had first taught _her_. “Frighten the younglings, the stern face of the Grand Master will. Have that we can not.”

“Wrinkly, I already am.” Yoda grumbles. “Old, I am, and _foolish_.”

“Foolish.” She repeats, disapproving. “Wise, your many years have made you – omnipresent, not could you be if many more years yet you lived. Foolish. _Pah_! We only know what we know, and only see what we see, old master of mine. Teach me this, you did. Forgotten it, you have.”

She prods him with her walking stick, a far more slim and springy device than his, made of a hardened, hollowed grass. Used mostly for sweeping larger beings out of her way. Yoda grumbles deeply and cracks open his eyes, to find her peering down at him.

“Ignore me like a chastened knight, you may not.” She says sternly, and proceeds to sit down. “Fall for it, I do not. Many of those many years, seen together, have you and I. Fault me as well, do you?”

“ _Fault_.” Yoda sighs grievously, feeling every day of his eight-hundred years, all his accomplishments crumbling against the merciless march of time. “Our own ending, we have devised.”

“Ending, no.” Yaddle thwaps his knee lightly with her stick. “Our end, this will not be. Old, you are. Root yourself like a tree, you do. Change, you resist. Change, we must. See it, you will. Accept it, you ought to.”

“Peaceful, my last few years should have been.” Yoda complains. “War, was I born into. War, I do not want to see again.”

“Hmm.” Yaddle humms, ears tilting. “A saying, the younglings have adopted. Want, there is not. Need, there is not. Only what must be, there is.”

“If come again, the sith have, another war, there must be.” Yoda mutters bitterly.

“Perhaps.” Yaddle acknowledges, reaching over to take his gnarled hand in her own. “But hope, there is. If war, there must be, a warrior, we have been sent. Heed him, we should.”

“Upstart, he is!” Yoda protests.

“Your favorites, upstarts are.” Yaddle reminds him dryly.

~*~

“Siri.” Adi starts, and then pauses, lips just parted. Her padawan, at first glance, looks impeccable, wearing stately grey and bronze robes that match her Master’s but don’t compliment her coloring as well as they compliment Adi’s. At seconds glance…

Adi reaches out and runs her fingers along the girls sleeve. “What is this?” She asks, feeling the shiny grit roll between the pads of her fingers. Siri had a faint glimmer from head to toe, and when she moved, the tiny crystal grains rained to the floor.

“I was attempting to help Obi-Wan with his sand excersize.” Siri says, her nose scrunching up in dissatisfaction. “It didn’t go well.”

“I can see that.” Adi comments, wondering what under the sun Naasade had the boy attempting now. “Padawan, you need to brush off.”

“Can’t you just use the Force?” Siri wheedles.

“Padawan.” Adi lifts a brow. “If I could manage to discover and lift every single grain of sand currently inhabiting your personal space, I assure you it would _scrub_ coming off.”

“I’ll go change.” Siri says quickly, and dashes away. Adi shakes her head, watching her leave a trail in her wake.

“Is your padawan not joining us?” Master Rancisis inquires, slithering towards her from the opposite direction.

“She will be along shortly.” Adi assures the councilor. “I am discovering the ambiguous plethora of messes padawan seem to be capable of creating spontaneously.”

“Ha!” The Councilor laughs. “Spoken as if you yourself caused no such thing in your younger days, Knight Gallia.”

“I did not trail sand from one end of the temple to another.” Adi says with poise. “Nor did I ever wake up with a sugar sweet stuck to my scalp.”

“Perhaps not.” The master concedes. “But I seem to recall a certain young tholotian with a terrible habit of leaving ink-laden fingerprints wherever she went. Was that not you?”

“I appreciated the classics.” Adi replies smoothly. “And my master encouraged the arts.”

“You had a cleaning droid personally assigned to trace your footsteps.”

“Did I?” Adi tilts her head, expression serene. “I think you must exaggerate, Master Rancisis.”

She remembers that droid. Perhaps more to the point, that droid still remembers _her_.

“Perhaps.” He concedes, reptilian eyes gleaming. “I will let you claim such things. Our diplomat must retain her dignity, after all.”

“You are most gracious.” Adi muses.

“Ss.” He blinks, and waves a hand dismissively. “I’m afraid we have less light-hearted matters to discuss, and perhaps it is best to do so before your padawan returns, Knight Gallia.”

Her laughter leaves her, and Adi nods. Where just a moment before she had relaxed, she can feel the tension building once more in her body, coiling tightly in grim anticipation. “There is a matter that has been brought to my attention regarding the Jedi Order’s dealings within the Senate, councilor, and I feel I must ask for help in verifying our suspicions on the matter.”

“And what are those suspicions – wait!” He lifts a hand, eyes gleaming under his locks of silver hair. “It is better I do not know, not yet.”

“I agree, master.” Adi nods. “I ask you only to accompany myself and my padawan today. We can pool our observations after the fact.”

Adi had mulled over the situation for weeks, feeling trapped by her own assessments and furious over how the long days in the senate drained her padawan. Much of that fury went inward, against herself, because without it having been pointed out, Adi would only have believed that it was simply a matter of course, and encouraged Siri to merely work past it, as Adi’s own master had done.

She had turned over and over the argument in her head of cornering Master Naasade and asking for his assistance. In the end, she had decided against it, having spent some time studying the mandalorian master as she would any politician.

Without the veil of her own bias, what she saw of him sent a chill down her spine and shame pooling in the hollow of her throat, enough to choke on.

What she had mistaken for arrogance, judgement, and pride, from the shadows revealed itself to be quiet anger, grief, and desperation. The man was never idle, and while she could not quite grasp his goals, he spared nothing in his efforts to achieve them.

That warning that itched in the Force around him, Adi finally realized, haunted him more than it haunted anyone else, and Adi struggled to relieve herself of a growing dread for what that might fortell.

So she did not ask more of Master Naasade than he had already given her. And he had _given_ it to her. She may have been the one to approach him that day, but she has no doubt that he would have maneuvered her into solving this problem regardless. His capability to do so irks her, and she finds that she still does not _like_ him, but the responsibility of the assignment supersedes all else.

Without him to turn to, Adi had sought out a neutral party, and one with far more vast an experience, to help her solve this, and had been drawn to Master Rancisis without quite understanding why, but she trusted in the Force, and he agreed easily enough, where other masters have sometimes gone above and beyond to avoid joining her in the arena of the Galactic Senate.

“After only a single day?” Master Rancisis inquires, head turning with a shift of long silver hair. “Will it be so obvious?”

Adi winces, shame burning in her gut, and grits her teeth. “In hindsight, it should be.” She replies grimly.


	5. Chapter 5

“Obi-Wan.” Tsui Choi calls out, his high, soft Aleen voice carrying, and Obi-Wan glances his way with a smile, but waits for his master to nod before lowering himself back to the ground. Levitation was a skill most Jedi found frivolous, but Master Ben had merely rolled his eyes at the notion and had Obi-Wan practice it anyways.

“To control one’s self in three dimensions is a valuable skill.” Master Ben had said with certainty. “Ataru, assisted jumps, space-flight – all of these touch upon elements of levitation. The fact that it’s _fun_ does not diminish its value, padawan mine.” He’d added, eyes sparkling.

Tsui twitches his hands curiously, looking intrigued, but then blinks, clearly reminding himself of his purpose. “The Council would like to see you.” Tsui reports, and politely ignores Obi-Wan soft groan of displeasure.

“Again?” He says dully. Tsui shrugs, offering only an agreeable smile that clearly conveyed he was pleased he did not suffer Obi-Wan’s infamy. A simple band of braided leather encircled the Aleen bows conical, tapered brow, adorned as of yet with a single green bead. Obi-Wan thought that Tsui’s quiet nature was well matched with Master Yaddle’s, and he was happy for the younger boy.

When Tsui wasn’t summoning him to the Council, _again_.

“I suppose I shall have to relinquish you for the evening.” Master Ben muses, and Obi-Wan whips his gaze back to his master, betrayed.

“Annoying as you may find it at times, Obi-Wan, the insight you have to offer the Council is valuable, and the responsibility great.” Master Ben reminds him quietly, reaching over to gently tug on his padawan braid, and Obi-Wan swallows back his next complaint.

“I just wish they would decide on it already.” Obi-Wan says. “I tell them the same things over and over and they keep dragging it on.”

“ _Val cuyir chaabe, Dral’solu_.” Master Ben murmurs quietly, flickering a glance at Tsui Choi, who respectfully looks away and does not attempt to listen in, though it is almost guaranteed he does not speak Mando’a. The New Mandalorian movement had taken its people away from the old language, which had been shaped by war and a culture of soldiers, along with all it’s violent history. As a result, it had fallen out of favor galaxy-wide. “ _Gar enteyor cuyir beskar rucuyir val cuyir paak_.”

“That is a lot to ask of me, Master.” Obi-Wan whispers. _If the High Council is afraid, how can I be their strength? I am only just Obi-Wan Kenobi!_ Obi-Wan thinks frightfully, nerves churning low in his belly, tasting of bile in the back of his throat.

“Too much?” Master Ben asks, hand resting on Obi-Wan’s shoulder now. Obi-Wan stares back up into his gaze and swallows tightly; as ever, there isn’t a shred of doubt in Master Ben’s grey-tinged gaze, but depths upon depths of understanding. If Obi-Wan says yes, his Master will not ask this of him. He’ll take the burden away.

_It’s a lot_ , Obi-Wan tells himself. _But is it_ _too much_?

Obi-Wan lifts his hand and wraps his fingers around his master’s wrist, giving himself something to ground to, and blinks. His master waits, calm and steady as ever.

“No.” Obi-Wan shivers a little, but he is certain. It isn’t too much. Not yet.

Master Ben smiles, the sort of smile that changes his whole face, soft and warm and kind, and he cups Obi-Wan’s cheek before letting his hand fall and shooing his padawan off to his responsibilities.

“What will you do without me?” Obi-Wan asks, meeting Tsui at the threshold.

“Hm?” Master Ben turns, looking thoughtful. “I’ll find something.”

Obi-Wan sighs a little, internally. One day, he’s hoping his Master’s reply will be ‘relax’, but it never is.

 

~*~

Obi-Wan enters the chamber with the ease and thoughtlessness of habit, and startles to discover that there are far more occupants in the room than he expected. One of them is Sian Jeisel, and Obi-Wan lifts a brow at her. She lifts a brow back.

Obi-Wan steps forward to stand beside her, taking note that her shadow is in fact a tiny black-skinned twi’lek, wide eyed as any young padawan is their first time before the council. The other two standing in the center of the floor are both mirialan, a master and senior padawan.

Obi-Wan flushes, realizing he has erred in his assumption, and Sian jostles him with her elbow in companionship.

“Master Vamoyo, padawans.” Master Windu speaks, nodding to them collectively, and then continues on, standing less on courtesy than other masters might. “A rare opportunity has presented itself, and each of you have been selected by this council to benefit from the experience.”

The padawans blink back at the master, who glances at Master Rancisis, as if seeking guidance, and then continues on bluntly. “The Galactic Republic is currently in negotiations with the sovereign system of Moia, and have been for some time. However, it is the practice of Moia that certain dealings should be handled by youth. As such, the senate has had much difficulty in meeting their requirements – as well as gaining their trust.”

“Less greedy and more fair, younglings are.” Yaddle explains. “Reach out to the Jedi, the senate has. Entrust this task to _our_ youth, they do.”

The little twi’lek sucks in a breath, shifting antsily on his feet and looking to everyone else for guidance. The mirialan padawan offers him a reassuring smile, and he settles some.

“Master Vamoyo and Padawan Unduli will escort you for this assignment, and your party is to join Senator Vallorum’s delegation as they return to Moia.” Master Windu says.

“M-my master won’t be with us?” The twi’lek asks quietly, wringing his hands.

“Not for this assignment, Padawan Tanwaze.” Master Windu softens his voice for the boy, though his expression remains unintentionally severe. “Do you wish to withdraw?”

“No!” The boy says hastily. “No.” He repeats, more quietly. Windu nods.

 “You are scheduled to depart the day after tomorrow. Prior to your departure, each of you will need to visit the Halls of Healing for a check-up and verify that your diplomatic passcodes are valid. A complete dossier will be sent to your personal comm-links; Padawan Tanwaze, your master will need to see to it that you receive a personal comm-link.”

“Yes, master!” The boy bounces a little, pale grey eyes wide, lekku twitching.

“Any questions?” Master Windu inquires. Obi-Wan bites his tongue. He has one question – an accusation, really. They are taking him away from his master, and he suspects their reasons are less than generous. But, his master would tell him to take advantage of the experience while he could.

When none are forthcoming, Windu looks pointedly to Master Yamal Vamoyo, who turns to the younger padawans with a soft smile broken by a ragged swathe of scars that mars his face and obscures the diamond pattern on his tattoos. “If any other questions or concerns should arise, padawans, feel free to address them to myself or Luminara.” He gestures to his padawan, who bows forward with a graceful tip of her head, a single line of diamonds running down her chin, marking her a disciple of the body in the mirialan way, whereas her master was a disciple of the spirit.

“Thank you, Master Vamoyo.” Mace Windu nods, and quietly dismisses them.

Padawan Tanwaze practically trips over his own feet and runs into Sian as they all attempt to leave, squeaking out an apology.

“Sorry!”

Sian sighs, and shares a look with Obi-Wan, who shrugs.

~*~

“Do you think her incapable?” Ben finally asks, after watching Qui-Gon Jinn huff and struggle with himself for the entirety of the past hour, pacing erratically around his quarters, occasionally picking something up, moving it, and then forgetting where it was set and winding himself in a twist about it.

“Of course not!” Qui-Gon snaps. “Sometimes I dare say she’s _too_ capable. What am I even doing with her?”

“I see why you called me.” Tahl mutters aside to Ben, fingers tapping off her elbow as she studied her friend. “You are guiding her, Qui-Gon.” Tahl speaks up so that the worrisome master will heed her. “Her path is only just beginning, and if she does not need you now, she will need you in the future, and you will be where you have always been – right at her side.”

“But I am not going at her side!” Qui-Gon protests, flinging out a hand and sinking into a chair with a ‘humph!’ of air. “Her first mission and she is going _without_ me.”

“You took her to Ilum.” Ben points out.

“Hardly a mission.” Qui-Gon sighs. “And one in which she needed me very little. I feel useless.”

Tahl sighs through her nose, irritable at his nerves.

“Useless how?” Ben prods, stroking his beard.

Qui-Gon glares at him, and Ben lifts a brow, drops his hand from his beard, and leans forward. “Then challenge her, Master Jinn. She is a capable padawan? Test her limits. Teach her to push past them. Find those things at which she is not so capable, and press her to learn to better herself. You are her master, and you complain of how little she needs you, and yet you all but _hide_ from her when she is in your presence.”

“I should not have taken another padawan.” Qui-Gon shakes his head. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Then repudiate her and send her away.” Ben snaps, sharply enough that Tahl flinches and Jinn startles. “You are either her master or you are not, but you _choose_.” Ben demands. “You make your choice and you stand by it. She does not need your uncertainty haunting her for the rest of her life. She deserves more than that.” _As did I._ Sian Jeisel is everything Ben had not been at her age – self-aware, level-headed, and just rebellious enough not to cower under authority simply because it was authority – given the best of Qui-Gon’s tutelage, she would be a knight remembered for a thousand years. Given the worst…

_I’m not sure there’s room in the galaxy for another one like me_ , Ben thinks.

“You all but forced me to take a padawan!” Qui-Gon stammers.

“And you could have told me to go to hell and walked away.” Ben shoots back. “Don’t think your wretched stubbornness has not proceeded you, Master Jinn. I hold no more sway over you than you give me.”

Tahl snorts. “He has you there, you great nerf-herder.”

Qui-Gon huffs indignantly and rises, pacing again. “She should take –“

“Qui-Gon!” Tahl says exasperatedly. “She is a Jedi. She has a list of what she will need. You cannot pack the entirely of your quarters into the pocket of her robes.”

“But what if-“

“She has her lightsaber, and her wits, and a lavish diplomatic suite waiting for her. She will be _fine_.” Tahl insists.

“What about-“

“Qui-Gon.”

“It’s just-“

“Qui-Gon.”

“Will she need feminine things? Tahl, when do girls-“

“ _Qui_ - _Gon_!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~*~
> 
> Val cuyir chaabe, Dral’solu = they are afraid, Bright One.
> 
> Gar enteyor cuyir beskar rucuyir val cuyir paak. = literally: You must be iron were they are salt. Ie: Give them strength to rely on OR show them strength when they crumble.


	6. Chapter 6

****

“You keep leaving me!” Anakin cries shrilly, and both Shmi and Ben wince, watching Obi-Wan’s expression crumble a bit as the four year old buried his face in the teenling’s tunics and sniffled.

“I do believe every master in the vicinity just muttered ‘ _attachment’_.” Ben remarks quietly, gaze idly drifting around the platform, counting reflexive frowns.

“They may mutter all they like.” Shmi replies, dark brown eyes serene. Obi-Wan crouches down, so that he and Anakin are on the same level, and whispers earnestly to the boy. Their noses are mere inches apart, Anakin’s fists balled into Obi-Wan’s tunics and Obi-Wan’s hands on his shoulders, as intensely gravitated together as binary suns, one golden and enduring, the other a searing blue, burning hot and fast. “He is a little boy, and he has a heart, and there is nothing wrong with that.”

“No, there isn’t.” Ben responds, settling one hand gently on her elbow. “The master’s expect you to give him up, now that you are officially a padawan. Have you decided what you’re going to do about that?”

“He is my son, and I will never give him up.” Shmi says pointedly. “He is a person, not an object.”

“I didn’t mean-“

“I know.” Shmi offers him a quiet smile, sweet on the edges. “But there is much harm done by those who do not mean to do it. They ought to be reminded every once in awhile. Sometimes those people are strangers, and sometimes they are our friends.”

Ben tips his head in acknowledgement, and Shmi crosses her arm to cover his hand with hers. “I will not give him to the crèche. But I will give him to Obi-Wan, when the time comes.”

“The council will be _delighted_ with that decision.” Ben huffs, grinning a little.

“I’m sure.” Shmi muses, and returns her gaze to the boys. Anakin’s nose is scrunched up, though he is nodding, and Obi-Wan is offering him an affectionate smile, gaze serene and certain.

~*~

The diplomatic transport was surprisingly crowded when the Jedi arrived. Senator Finis Vallorum, a tall man with a narrow face and a crown of golden hair and Senator Anthen Macell, a starry eyed Rodian female with very freckled green skin represented the Republic with an entourage of protocol droids, and the sovereign system of Naboo had requested observation slots for four of their Junior Legislator Cadets, given the unique negotiation system of Moia, and they seemed to be all over the ship whenever one turned around, swishing to and fro in plum purple robes embroidered with flowers.

"How did you get selected?” Padawan Jepas Tanwaze asks the youngest, a cherub-faced girl with brown ringlet curls named Padmé.

“By essay contest. We had to argue our way into the opportunity.” Padmé says, her voice bright and carrying.

“Padmé argues very well.” Cadet Panaan comments, four years the ten year old girls senior, and the eldest of the Naboo Cadets. “And often very loudly.”

“If I don’t speak up, I don’t get heard at all!” Padmé contests with a very serious look on her small face. Cadet Panaan shrugs to that and walks away. Padmé turns back to Padawan Jepas. “How did you get selected?” She inquires politely.

“Oh! Uh-um…well, not by winning a contest or anything like that…” The twi’lek padawan squirms nervously. “The council just sort of chose us.”

“Are you diplomatic Jedi?” Padmé asks curiously. “Is there such a thing as diplomatic Jedi?”

“There is, but usually one decides that path after their knighting.” Luminara Unduli, the Mirialan senior padawan replies, investigating the contents of the galley cupboards with the deft exploration of an experienced spacer.

“I’m an Archivist’s padawan.” Jepas says. “And I want to be an archivist too.”

“So you keep a library?” Padmé brightens. “I love libraries.”

“We keep the best library!” Jepas beams, bouncing on his feet, and proceeds to launch into perhaps the most excited explanation of the archival coding system Obi-Wan has ever heard.

“He’s…definitely an Archivist.” Sian comments blankly, watching the twitchy black-skinned twi’lek gush.

“The future Madame Nu.” Obi-Wan replies, just as blankly. “Only bouncier.”

Sian snorts, and bursts into giggles. Obi-Wan grins. He catches Padawan Unduli’s eye and she lifts an amused blue brow in his direction. He flushes a little, and watches her expression slip into pleasant surprise, and her hand comes out of a secret compartment holding a foil box of chocolates.

“Lovely.” She remarks, inspecting it.

“Padawan?” Master Vamoyo ducks into the galley, and the foil box vanishes with the swish of a sleeve. “Have you found a preferable tea yet?”

Luminara looks utterly impeccable as she turns and bows respectfully to her master.

“Reds and whites I’m afraid. No blues.” She reports.

Master Vamoyo sighs. “A pity.” He remarks, and his eyes light on the padawans sprawled around the little tables ringing the curved edge of the room. “So _this_ is where all of you have been hiding. Found any sweets yet?”

To a youngling, every single one of them blink placidly back at him and shake their heads. Jepas is the only one to slip a glance at Padawan Unduli, who looks nothing but gracefully reserved in composure.

“Perhaps for the best.” The Master says, recognizing that an entire ship full of sucrose-enhanced children may be beyond his ability to handle. “I suppose I shall have to go and entertain the senators uncaffeinated then.” His gaze lights on Sian. “Padawan Jeisel, your master and Senator Vallorum are friends. Would you care to accompany me?”

Sian pauses for a heartbeat, surprised, and then nods a second before realizing that perhaps she did _not_ want to go entertain senators.

Too late.

She shoots Obi-Wan a pleading look and Obi-Wan shakes his head in denial, because he _knew_ he did not want to go entertain senators. She narrows her eyes dangerously at him, shining electric blue.

_I’ll save you a chocolate_. Obi-Wan mouths, out of the master’s sight, and her temper cools grudgingly. She holds up two fingers, and Obi-Wan crosses his arms and raises a brow. She lifts her chin in challenge, daring him.

_Two_ , he agrees for the sake of their friendship, and she flashes him a sharp-edged smile.

~*~

Moia is a sovereign system in the outer rim, consisting of two habitable planets – Moia and Moia Arasia, a terraformed colony world – twelve gas giants, and some seven hundred moons, forty of which also supported sustainable life. The system boasted two separate sentient species – The Mo’Tasi and the Ia’Tasi, whom had been symbiotically linked since their earliest years of space-flight capability. Even their languages where now indistinguishable.

A deep and promising relationship, their history tells, that began with their children.

The Mo’Tasi evolved on Moia itself, which was once Mosurrat, and the Ia’Tasi hailed from Atan’Ia, a planet in the system which no longer supported life. The Mo’Tasi were a delicate looking people, standing on four spindly legs and possessing two spindly arms, covered in a short bristle of yellow to black fur and capable of great speeds and a uniquely extreme vocal range. The Ia’Tasi were a reptilian species, broad-backed and compact, white-scaled with long trailing tails and incredible hearing.

Their interest in the Republic was exploratory, wishing to meet new peoples and discover new technologies, whereas the Republic’s interest was commodity – the Moia system produced Sassa Leaf, which in addition to being a particularly delicious herb grew well in extremely acidic soil, leeching it of toxic elements, which, over time, would allow less hardy plants to be sown in that ground. It also contained two gas giants which produced high volumes of gaseous Helium-Cobalt, a rare element used in certain types of hyperdrive engines.

“Is it just me, or is this ship shuddering?” Sian asks, pressed up against a transparasteel observation panel side by side with Obi-Wan.

“Not just you.” Jepas Tanwaze mumbles miserably, clinging to his lekku.

“There are some intense gravity fields throughout the system.” Senator Vallorum says apologetically. “Their sun is exceedingly large, and the gas giants require careful navigation. Not to worry.” He adds. “Our pilots have been cleared a safe flight path.”

The gas giants were beautiful, balls of whirling color against the blackness. The nearest was an luminescent yellow and rosy orange, with deeper bands of green-black that crackled with flashing storms, surrounded by bands of purple-red dust and rock.

Obi-Wan is glad his master isn’t here. Master Ben had a deep-seated unease with turbulent flights.

_Oh, just a few dozen crashes too many!_ He’d cracked a smile, the last time their transport got a little rocky and Obi-Wan had finally dared ask. Obi-Wan had been deeply troubled by his response, and had not asked for clarification on why his master kept crashing.

“We’ll be arriving on Moia Arasia shortly.” Senator Macell adds.

“Not Moia?” Cadet Noona inquires.

“The Moia moved their capital to Moia Arasia in an effort to encourage the sustainability of Moia and even out the development between the two planets.” Senator Vallorum reports. “Their history is really quite fascinating.” He smiles, and the Jedi can feel his genuine enthusiasm gleam in the Force. Obi-Wan shares a look with Sian, who shrugs a little. They can see why Master Jinn might like him.


	7. Chapter 7

“ _And how was your journey, Obi-Wan_?” Master Ben inquires. Obi-Wan can’t quite tell where he’s standing given the limited range of the holo-projector, but suspects it’s the archives, given that his master was standing with a cup of tea in his hands. Master Ben preferred to enjoy his tea in repose. He considered it good manners.

“Crowded.” Obi-Wan reports. “We have four Naboo Junior Legislators with us in addition to the Senatorial delegates and their host of droids. Master Vamoyo was _not_ expecting to be in charge of so many younglings, but the Naboo apparently had no qualms about sending theirs without one.”

“ _Padawan Unduli’s master_?” Master Ben lifts a brow, a light humor on his face. “ _I rather expect he_ is _a little overwhelmed. Mirialan’s are quite a reserved people, and Luminara Unduli is not the kind of person to give him too many silver hairs._ ”

Obi-Wan experiences one of those moments of quiet internal contemplation, wondering how his master always seems to _know_ people he’s never met.

“The system is a little difficult to navigate – the gravity wells of a supermassive star and a dozen gas giants made for a rocky trip in.” Obi-Wan continues.

“ _Glad I wasn’t there_.” Master Ben utters, and then pauses. For a flicker of an expression, Obi-Wan could swear his master looked exasperated, but then it passes like a trick of the imagination. “ _So what is next on your agenda_?”

“We’re scheduled to meet for official talks with the Moia tomorrow afternoon – this planet has a dust ring, and you get the shadow of it at midday. They consider this a second start for the day, and the best time for negotiations.” Obi-Wan reports, having found the phenomena fascinating, as had Senator Vallorum. “But we’re to meet with the Duke of Mandalore in the morning first.”

Master Ben sucks in a breath, chokes, and coughs against his shoulder, trying not to spill his tea-cup while he clears the misplaced fluid from his lungs. “Wh-at?”

Obi-Wan frowns in concern over his master, who waves a hand to be ignored, which makes Obi-Wan want to roll his eyes, because even in blue holo his master’s pallor has taken a turn. But Obi-Wan doesn’t roll his eyes at his master, because Master Ben considered it poor manners, and found increasingly creative ways to ‘encourage’ Obi-Wan to repress the gesture. At least in polite company.

Obi-Wan was still mulling over whether or not to argue about if Master Ben Naasade counted as polite company or not.

“Mandalore is the nearest Republic System of influence, and is sponsoring the Moia’s petition to be accepted into the Republic as a sovereign system. I think there was some dossier to attach the Moia system to Mandalore’s, but the Duke is requesting that they be allowed their own representation.” Obi-Wan explains.

“ _I’m not surprised. Mandalore is in the midst of a civil war. Dragging a new system into the midst of that would be disastrous_.” Master Ben comments, setting his tea-cup aside to where it blinked out of view and crossing his arms, one hand stroking his beard.

It’s a stance his master takes sometimes that makes Obi-Wan’s whole body feel cold. Somehow, that quiet, calculative posture seems more violent than his forceful Djem-So guard position that his master still reactively slides into when startled on too little sleep.

“It would add resources to Mandalore that the system desperately needs.” Obi-Wan points out.

“ _But at what cost_?” Master Ben replies, tone sharp. He quells himself almost as soon as he’s done speaking, offering an apologetic look to his padawan for his tone, and explains. “ _Duke Adonai Kryze is a mighty clan warlord. For now, he holds sway within the system, but since the slaughter at Galidraan and the fall of the True Mandalorians, the strength of the Old Clans is fading, crushed between Death Watch and the New Mandalorians, two extremes of separate ideals. He is trying to avoid tearing his own people apart. Absorbing Moia would give the system power and resources, but if the Duke loses control of Mandalore, if the Death Watch succeeds…_ ”

“They’d tear Moia apart, overthrow its people, strip it bare, and no one could help them.” Obi-Wan concludes sadly. “It would be considered an internal affair of Mandalore.”

“ _By his honor, Duke Kryze cannot allow that_.” Master Ben nods.

“I understand.” Obi-Wan says, hoping someday he’ll be as wise in his perspectives as Master Ben. “Thank you, master.”

“ _Of course, padawan_.” Master Ben smiles for him, arms loosening. “ _Do let me know how it goes_?”

Obi-Wan nods. “ _Duumir te an'keliroya cuyir ti gar, Baji’buir_.”

“And with you, _verdibir_.” Master Ben nods back, his hologram winking out.

~*~

 

_I need the passcode to your quarters. – QV_

Quinlan waits hours for a reply, but figures that Obi-Wan is halfway across the galaxy, and can be forgiven for this. It’s _because_ the younger boy is halfway across the galaxy that Quinlan is doing this now, with little twinges of guilt that where entirely overwhelmed by sheer curiosity.

 Quinlan had originally been attracted to the younger initiate because he, unlike so many other Jedi, even the younglings, was _emotional_. He showed it on his face, in his voice, through his actions, and it was felt so much easier to breath around him, to know that Quinlan himself wasn’t the only one who felt like he was _drowning_.

Master Tholme didn’t tell Quinlan to hide his emotion, to throw them away, but his lessons on controlling them never quite _worked_ , and it made Quinlan bitter. Except Obi-Wan…Obi-Wan seemed just the same, but without all that bitterness about it. He’d flush, and he’d get angry, and he’d well up with shame, but he never went to that same dark place that Quinlan reached, stewing in his own incapability, and it helped ease that painful wanting the kiffar felt, sometimes.

He’d surprised himself by actually becoming the boys friend. Two years younger, and emotional, persevering, prim and cuttingly sarcastic Obi-Wan Kenobi had worked his ways through the distance Quinlan kept from people with a flirty smile and a biting intelligence.

_You can’t just ask my master? – O-BK_

Quinlan lifts a brow at the reply, and waits. A minute later, his comm pings again. _Called it_ , he thinks.

_WHY do you need the passcode to my quarters_? – _O-BK_

Quinlan grins, imaging the look of consternation on the red-heads face.

_I can’t find one of my gloves. Think I left it in there. Also my cards. – QV_

Which is true, to a point. Quinlan just doesn’t acknowledge the fact that he left those things behind deliberately.

_Your cheating cards, you mean?_ – _O-BK_

_Why Obi-Wan, I would never…_ \- _QV_

_Ugh, I could see you batting your eyes. Stop it._ – _O-BK_

Quinlan feels his smile grow bigger. He really does adore the other padawan.

_Stay out of my room, and don’t mess with anything. I’m serious. –_ O-BK

Quinlan feels his smile fade a little, as the string of code comes through the comm.

_I’ll be in and out. Promise. - QV_

“That’s a very complicated look on your face, padawan.” Master Tholme looks up from his reading, lounging own the length of the couch in their quarters. Quinlan looks up at him, his eyes always aware of the scar and the blind eye on the former watchman’s face, but never lingering. In some ways, Quinlan found Master Naasade and Master Tholme to be innately similar individuals, for more reasons than just because they were human.

They both carried violence quietly contained, always watchful in a way that felt piercing to the soul, and both of them, when it came to the things that mattered, where heartbreakingly gentle.

In other things, however, not so much.

“I’m a complicated person.” Quinlan quips at his master, who snorts lightly. Quinlan bounces out of his chair and onto his feet to overcome the wriggling in his skin. “I’m going out.”

“Don’t get into trouble.” Master Tholme remarks, and Quinlan doesn’t miss a beat.

“ _Me_? Never.”

“ _Padawan_.” Master Tholme sighs long-sufferingly.

He knows him far too well, and Quinlan sometimes resents him for it, but Quinlan is also old enough now that his master lets him make his own decisions.

_Some things, I fear, you’ll just have to learn for yourself_. His Master had told him, the last time he’d bailed Quinlan out of jail. _But never think that I won’t still be here._

_Never have and never will._ Quinlan had jauntily, with far more truth than he’d dared to admit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MANDO’A
> 
> duumir te an'keliroya cuyir ti gar, Baji’buir = may the force be with you, Master. NOTE: Mando’a dictionary does not have a term for The Force, so I conjugated ‘Will of All Life’ which is ‘Kelir be An Oyay’ to make it work.
> 
> Verdibir = soldier-student ie: padawan.
> 
> I work with the canon and semi’canon language as much as possible, but some things I just have to improvise because we don’t have the language. Same with Amatakka, which is a very incomplete fanon language.
> 
> ~*~


	8. Chapter 8

“-Vallorum, Senator Macella, -“

The capitol of Moia Arasia was a jewel of pre-planning and intentional design. Just south of a rather sheer-sided chain of mountains, Atansurrat was nestled between a flowering river valley and several miles of shining white beach. The buildings where all tall spires of silver-veined stone and wide archways which accommodated both species quite well. Colorful flags seemed to drape from every window, and music – which was an integral part of the Moia culture – seemed to spill from every communal building. It wasn’t quite melodic to the human ear, but Padawan Tanwaze seemed to find it incredibly enchanting, and babbled out confusing attempts to describe to them what the whole musical range actually sounded like.

“- Padawan Unduli, Padawan Kenobi, Padawan Jeisel –“

Duke Kryze of Mandalore, a reasonable sort of person, agreed to meet them in an open air balcony courtyard that was part of their interstellar embassy, overlooking a sprawling swathe of eye-catchin tidepools.

“- Cadet Daroo, and Cadet Naberrie,” The protocol doid finally gets through their full contingent, while the stand very still (a trying effort, for ten year old Padawan Tanwaze) and try not to squint against the sunshine spilling over the horizon. “May I present to you the Duke of Mandalore, Adonai Kryze, and his younger daughter, Satine Kryze.”

Obi-Wan perhaps should have been given a few more days between being dropped off by Jango Fett to remember he is a Jedi Padawan and therefor should keep his mouth shut in such situations, but he is fresh off a few brutal weeks education in Mandalorian courtesy, and has no such hesitation.

His fist comes up of its own accord to cross his chest, and the words fall out of his mouth so easily he surprises himself, right along with everyone else. “ _Cuun ijaat gotal_ , _Jorad’alor_.”

Senator Vallorum, who had opened his mouth to speak, gapes a little, and Master Vumoyo, who had been lifting from a bow to do the same, makes a soft sound of uncertainty.

Duke Adonai Kryze is a tall, lean figure, with silvery blonde hair and pale green eyes and the scars of a man who has survived not only open battle, but more than one assassination attempt. To call his countenance severe would be mild, but the mandalorians tended to be severe, in one way or another. His daughter was Obi-Wan’s age, with silvery-blonde hair and silvery-blue eyes and delicately sharp features only just softened by youth.

Both of them light on him with the same cool, evaluative stare, and Obi-Wan can feel his ears redden.

“ _Ijaat jor’likur, jetii_.” The Duke replies, sounding faintly puzzled, and then casts his gaze around their outright baffled company. “I am relieved to see that the Moia are being given their due consideration.” He says, “I wanted the chance to personally vouch for the Moia’s petition before the negotiations resume and to reiterate that Mandalore wants and will have no part in overstepping the Moia’s sovereignty.”

“You will not be staying to see the petition through?” Senator Macell inuires, surprised.

“I am needed back at home, Senator Macell.” The Duke replies, in the terse tone of someone used to barking orders and being obeyed – out of habit, more than expectation. Jango Fett had the same manner even in casual conversation. “My daughter will stay to represent Mandalore’s diplomatic interests.”

“I see.” Senator Vallorum recovers before Senator Macell. “Well then, we shall make the most of you while we have you.”

Duke Kryze nods and gestures for them to proceed him towards the tables, where drinks and a light lunch have been laid out. If Obi-Wan hadn’t been looking right at Padawan Tanwaze at that paricualr moment, he would never have known that the boy darted forward energetically and was abruptly and quietly brought to heel by Padawan Unduli’s swift reaction, guiding the boy into step with her with a firm grip.

The Senators fall into step with the Duke, immediately launching into dissemination of protocol and facts regarding the negotiations with the Moia, and Obi-Wan is distracted enough that he doesn’t notice Satine Kryze stepping up beside him after sharing a quick, pointed glance with her father until she is already at his side, her silver and blue clothes shimmering in the sunlight.

“Who taught you mando’a? Your pronunciation is too well accented to have learned from a program.” She inquires, her voice unexpectedly low for a girl, and slightly weathered, like wind over stone.

“I’ve had a few teachers.” Obi-Wan replies vaguely, a nerve pinching between his shoulders. Some of his inflection he learned from his master’s muttering and occasional instruction, but most of the actual language he learned from texts and Jango Fett, and Fett’s status as the Mand’alor and relationship with the Duchy was….uncertain. “My master is Mandalorian, and I endeavored to learn for his sake.”

“May I ask his _aliit_?” She says softly, silvery-blue gaze meeting his in a way that makes him slightly uncomfortable. “Mandalorian Jedi are…uncommon.”

 _Nonexistent, save one_. Obi-Wan thinks, and then considers again with a flash of pride. _Or two, now_.

“What’s _aliit_?”

Obi-Wan twitches reflexively when Cadet Padme Naberrie appears under his elbow, brown eyes wide with awe as she looks up at the older, gracefully self-possessed girl.

“I could not say.” Obi-Wan replies carefully, to Satine. “My master calls himself _Naasade_.”

Surprise flits across her face, followed by an intensely focused look as she studies Obi-Wan, who bristles. He knows the connotations that name carries, and what she must be thinking, and resents it.

“What’s _aliit_?” Padme asks again, slightly louder. Her tone is that of childish exasperation, for all she carries herself with the poise and discipline of a lifelong ambassador.

“Clan and Kin. She was asking for his family name.” Obi-Wan answers the girl, offering her a smile in apology for overlooking her.

“Oh.” Padme says, blinking up at him and blushing slightly. “Thank you.” She trails them to the lunch table, and Obi-Wan fumbles slightly with his utensils as he serves himself, feeling distinctly awkward with Satine studying his every move.

~*~

For a man no one knows anything about, everyone a least always knows where Master Naasade is. His routine within the temple is simple, and even if it weren’t, Jedi are terrible gossips and all Quinlan has to do is ask if he’s been seen to receive a detailed analysis of what he’s up to, or suspected to be up to.

At the moment, Master Naasade in the crèche, which gives Quinlan at least a few hours. He has no intention of taking more than a few minutes, of course, but he’s trying to avoid unexpected encounters.

He’s not an idiot.

Quinlan walks with quiet purpose down the corridor, nodding politely to a tired padawan returning to their quarters smelling like plasma and swamp water, and a distracted master heading the other direction with their attention firmly fixed on a datapad. The look of disturbed confusion on their face piques Quinlan’s curiosity, but he has different avenues to explore today, and doesn’t pause to ask.

Quinlan taps in the code to the Naasade/Kenobi quarters with quick ease, slouching against the doorframe and being remarkably unremarkable. His fingers lift with the impression of those who have come before him – Master Naasade, whose memory is always buzzing with distracted thoughts, Obi-Wan, flush with relief to be returning to the sanctum of his home, and faint impressions of Master Ti and Shmi Skywalker, whose memories on the device are fading and blurring together, overlaid too often now by other people.

Psychometry was a strange gift of the Force, allowing the psychometric in question to pick up not only memories imprinted upon any object or person, but to experience them as if they were there. Most days, it meant Quinlan wore gloves just for the sake of his own sanity, and preferred disposable utensils when eating. Other days, however, Master Tholme was training him to use his gift for investigations, and Quinlan was _good_ at it. Even the other psychometrics in the Temple said he had by far the strongest gift among them.

So, from a certain point of view, snooping was only training, and investigating Master Naasade was just…practice.

 _And from Obi-Wan’s point of view_? The snide voice in the back of his head whispered, as Quinlan slipped into the room. The kiffar teenling frowned, reflexively clenching and unclenching his hands.

 _Obi-Wan wants to know too_ , he argues back to himself. _He just wouldn’t dare ask_.

 _And it’s not like I’m going to tell anyone_ , he adds, trying to shake the uneasy feeling in his stomach. _I just want to_ know.

A trait which had gotten him into trouble more than once. For others, curiosity was…curiosity. For Quinlan, sometimes he felt curiosity was an urge deeper than any hunger, stronger than any thirst. That his need to _know_ was greater than his need for sleep, or sunlight. He didn’t do the things he did to hurt anyone, to be better than someone else, or to feel special, he just did them to ease his own mind.

What was the point of his gift, after all, if not to use it?

Quinlan likes the Kenobi/Naasade quarters. He likes their collection of mismatched dishes in bright colors, he likes the plants that whisper of care and contentment and patience, of their table full of simple memories – Anakin giggling, Shmi practicing the Arubesh alphabet, Obi-Wan facing off over the table with his master, firing rapid questions while attempting to scribble out an essay, Master Naasade’s humor radiating back at him, along with the powerful sense of nostalgia his impression always carries.

Quinlan smiles letting his fingers trail over the edge, and fishes his glove and cards out of the foa cushions. The memories there are mixed – quiet morning contemplations, and restless dread waited out through long hours of sleepless nights – and Quinlan withdraws from that. The couch is new, and those impressions won’t tell him anything specific aside from the fact that Master Naasade has trouble sleeping, and all of Obi-Wan’s friends already know his master has trouble sleeping. Obi-Wan frets about it.

Quinaln moves past the living area and towards Master Naasade’s sleeping quarters, pausing on the threshold as the door snicks open when his hand catches a memory off the frame. It’s strong enough that he slips into it – Master Naasade leaning against the frame, looking into the room. Two beds are barely fit into the space. Obi-Wan is asleep, sprawled on his stomach with a monochromatic comforter bunched under his chin and twisted around his limbs. Master Naasade watches his chest rise and fall, something about the youth on Obi-Wan’s face making him terrible sad, and a thought chases round and around in his head, full of grief and doubt – _Is it right? Is it right_?

He’s done that often, if the impression is so strong, and Quinlan pulls himself out of it, looking into the room with only one bed now, covered with a knit maroon blanket. Quinlan steps up to the closet, but its barer than most, containing only clothes and datapads. Nothing personal. Quinlan scowls in frustration and begins rifling the room, wondering if there isn’t a hidden compartment.

There isn’t.

Master Naasade has merely applied the simple out-of-the-way secrecy of stashing a chest under his bed, which scuffs the floor when Quinlan pulls it out. It’s a battered thing, with sand ground into the hinges, and Quinlan runs his fingers over it. Nothing really calls out to him – just the impression of being opened and closed, full of tiredness, or frustration, or simple rote action.

Quinlan pops it open with another twinge of guilt, quickly crushed by excited curiosity. The items inside are an odd collection. A stoneware jar that whsipers of blistering sun and filled with a gritty paste. He gets the impression of a woman, grinding pods into paste, and worry, as the jar changes hands between her and a man she thinks is a ghost waiting to die. There is a bottle of corellian brandy, still sealed, and Quinlan avoids that with the firm knowledge that nothing good has ever come from him grabbing someone’s spirits. There is a slim wooden case, smaller than the palm of his hand, that he picks up carefully, immediately rocked by pain and the kind of clinging cherishment that Jedi never admitted to. The kind of reverent heartbreak that only came from love. Quinlan’s rarely ever felt it, and it makes his skin shiver and his heart pound. He’s never been in love, but he already knows he never wants his heart broken, not if it felt like that. He opens the case. Inside is a pressed flower, a lily he doesn’t recognize, and a padawan braid of dark blonde hair. Quinlan’s fingers hover, but he doesn’t touch that. The bond between a master and padawan was sacred, and he is afraid to know what happened to whomever it was that Master Naasade once raised, if it turned him into the man he was today.

Quinlan closes the case and puts it back.

The last item of interest was a small bundle of cloth. Quinlan picks it up, the fabric of no special meaning, and unspools it. A lightsaber clatters onto the floor.

Quinlan blinks. Rumor said that Master Naasade made a new lightsaber shortly after he surfaced in the Temple, but Quinlan hadn’t heard a thing about him still having his old one. Jedi didn’t usually make a new lightsaber while their old one was still serviceable, but he can feel the soft song of the crystal within it, and the casing is intact, if less than polished.

It is also soaked with power. Master Naasade carried this blade for a very long time.

 _You lightsaber is your life, padawan._ It was a lesson every Jedi was taught. The crystal that came to you, the connection you formed with that weapon within the Force, the experiences you witnessed, all of it was carried forward, from the moment it was forged to the moment it was lost or buried with your ashes or passed on to another Jedi.

It was considered rude to take up another Jedi’s lightsaber without permission even if you _weren’t_ a psychometric kiffar.

 _I just want to know,_ Quinlan repeats, steeling himself _. I’m not going to tell anyone about it._

Taking a breath, Quinlan picks up the saber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cuun ijaat gotal, Jorad’alor. = An honor made, He-who-is-the-voice-of-the-people. 
> 
> Ijaat jor’likur, jetii. = An honor confirmed, Jedi.
> 
> Basic greeting/ interaction of respect.


	9. Chapter 9

It was a game.

As the Ia’Tasi and Mo’Tasi had been brought together by childrens games, so were all alliances their peoples made.

The Moia introduced them to Ia’Tasi Satta and Mo’Tasi Innin shortly after shadow-past, both of the younglings eager and attempting solemnness with playfully childish manners that the Jedi younglings found perplexing – Jedi younglings learned reservation very young, after all.

Satta’s white scales shone brightly in the sunshine, the reptilian females lack of eyes not seeming to trouble her in directing her smile at them, and Innin’s legs stamped lightly in nervousness. Both of them had green ichor smeared over their brows in some symbolic meaning, and were dressed in folded swathes of airy fabric, as seemed to be the Moia style.

The game in question, as the younglings chitteringly explained, often stepping over each others words, was a simple one. Narrow tiles were stacked in a rather complicated pattern, forming a basic pyramid with a crystal prism on top. The objective of the game was to remove as many pieces as possible without toppling the crystal.

“You do not really win or lose.” Satta explains.

“It’s merely a simple sort of personality test.” Innin adds, a little older than Satta, who is perhaps twelve, but a little shyer too. “It tests the way you think, the way you approach problems.”

“Was it designed to?” Cadet Naberrie inquires curiously. Satta swishes her tails, careful not to catch it up on anyones feet.

“It was designed for _fun_.” Satta replies. “The rest is just after-thought logic that grown ups come up with.”

One of the Ia’Tasi grown ups in question clears their throat pointedly, while their Mo’Tasi companion snickers lyrically behind one dexterous, long-fingered hand.

“But how do the Ia’Tasi play?” Padawan Tanwaze blurts out, bouncing on his heels again, fingers wrung together. “Um…being blind?” He ducks his head, no doubt flushing in embarrassment under his dark complexion.

“We echolocate.” Satta explains, feeling utterly unoffended in the Force. A little playful, even. “We have extremely good hearing, and a sense for vibrations. _I_ probably have a better idea of how the stones are balanced than _you_ do.”

“I’ll take that as a challenge.” Sian smiles fiercely, and the Ia’Tasi younglings tails twitches, daring her to try.

“Please excuse me, but Jedi may have an unfair advantage.” Master Vumoyo interrupts, radiating quiet apology as he offers the younger Jedi a slightly quelling look. “The Force reacts to our focus, and we may unwittingly be able to stop the tower from toppling.”

The Ia’Tasi adult spreads their hands – a gesture of pleasant humor. “It will not be so, though we credit your honesty.” He says, tail looped languidly around his own feet.

“I’m not sure I understand.” Master Vumoyo offers.

“Let the young ones see.” The Mo’Tasi adult says, and offers up a stone. Sian shakes her head slightly, uncertain as to what she is expected to do, and Obi-Wan accepts the small piece into his palm. It looks like polished soapstone, but feels even lighter than that. The surface is cool, and smooth, and Obi-Wan peers at it, and then at the expectant looks he’s receiving, or, in the case of the Ia’Tasi, the expectantly lifted chins and twitching tails gestured in his direction.

“Move it with the Force, padawan.” Master Vamoyo encourages.

Obi-Wan nods, and attempts to do so, staring down at the tile in his hands. He can sense the heat of his palm, but the stone itself is as null as an object can be, near invisible to his senses. He wraps the Force around the stone – and it slides away, elusive and smooth as water. Obi-Wan frowns, focuses, and tries again with the same result.

Slightly embarrassed, he studies the simple tile more intensely, and attempts to wrap his essence around it as he would his grains of sand. This time, his efforts do not slide off, but where he catches the stone with the Force, the Force prickles like static, skittering uneasily. Frustrated, Obi-Wan fortifies his hold on the tile in the Force, and _presses_.

It shatters, and everyone flinches.

“My apologies.” Obi-Wan says, palm stinging.

“I accept them, though they are unneeded.” The Ia’tasi Ambassador says, fingers twitching. “I am most impressed you affected it at all.”

“I’ve never felt anything like it. What kind of stone is that?” Obi-Wan inquires, shaking the shards from his hand and wincing as the welts left behind were flexed.

“Not stone.” The Ia’Tasi explains. “It is a coral that grows in the sea deserts. Many of our people have the sense, as you Jedi do, and the discovery of the coral’s properties allowed us to build our sanctuaries and our prisons, in the long past when the Moia were at war with each other. That we now use it to bring our peoples together is symbolic of the differences we have overcome.”

“That’s quite fascinating.” Padawan Unduli comments, looking thoughtful.

“You have a truly remarkable culture.” Senator Vallorum adds.

“Thank you.” The Mo’Tasi ambassador bows their graceful neck. “We are honored that you see it so.”

“Can we play now?” Innan asks, still shifting shyly on his skinny, delicate legs.

“We will leave you to it.” The Ia’Tasi ambassador nods with resigned amusement. “If the adults wish to join us inside? We can offer you a more thorough tour of our capitol while the children play.”

“Will it take them so long?” Padawan Unduli inquires, eyeing the younglings as they settled down around the pyramid.

“Oh, they’ll likely rebuild it once or twice.” The Mo’Tasi ambassador comments. “Which is as it should be.”

“Perhaps you should stay, padawan.” Master Vumoyo suggests softly, earning a slightly betrayed look from the young woman.

“Your children will not come to harm here, Master Jedi.” The Mo’Tasi ambassador remarks, a little offended.

“Oh, I have no doubts of that.” Master Vumoyo apologizes. “But I’ve _seven_ of them to look after, and fast friends are quick to find themselves some trouble to get into.”

“Oh, Master Jedi,” Ambassador Ra’amm chuckles. “That is the _point_. Come with us, Padawan Unduli. Let them make their mischief. It bodes well for our negotiations.”

Luminara smiles, and smiles wider when a thought passes to her from her Master.

 _I’m just not sure it bodes well for me_ , Master Yamal sends plaintively down their bond.

 _I will look after you, Master mine_ , Luminara sends back, full of mirth. _As always_.

~*~

The cargo ramp drops down and heat rolls up into the belly of their transport in a wave of shimmering air. One mechanic gags a little at the sudden temperature change, their species not quite well suited to it, poor thing. Shaak Ti, Shmi, and Anakin, however, hold their breath and let the wave buffet over them. Shaak Ti winces at the sudden brightness of real light that strikes her eyes, and Anakin darts down the ramp, a flash of yellow and red-brown to match his mother.

“Yippee!” The boy woops, as his mother follows him more sedately.

“Stay by me, Ani.” Shmi warns him softly, and the boy looks back at her and nods solemnly before bursting into a bright grin.

“It’s warm, Amu!” He cheers.

“That it is.” Shaak Ti nods back at the little boy, feeling the heat press down on her and shimmer up off the sand, leeching through the soles of her boots.

Jedha was a glory of red sand and towering stone, the Temple here ancient, and its stone guardians larger than life. Shaak Ti has never before come to the Jedha Temple, which followed a different path than the Coruscant home she knew, but it was by far past time to find Shmi’s lightsaber crystal, and it had felt more right to come here than to take her to wintery Ilum.

A breeze whispers over the sand, and Shmi’s padawan braid tugs in it, as if drawing her towards the temple itself. Shmi reaches out a hand towards her son, and both of them are given golden silhouettes by the powerful sun of a desert world.

 _Definitely the right choice_ , Shaak Ti thinks proudly.

They make their way through a pressingly crowded open market, listening to chiming bells and the up-and-down call of hagglers and hawkers. Lanterns and streamers flutter in the breeze, strung between almost every window, and Shaak Ti finds herself trusting Shmi’s instincts more than her own as they press through the crowd, the demure woman seeming far more capable of slipping through the press of bodies than Shaak Ti with all her togrutan presence.

Shaak Ti feels a pressing worry, her eyes constantly darting down to locate Anakin, but Shmi never once misses a step with him under her elbow, pointing and grinning at all the various new things and new people he’s discovering.

The crowd thins and quiets as they near the Temple. Shaak Ti can spy a few Jehda Shamans and Temple Gaurdians out and about, in their stark red and black robes. Away from the overwhelming presence of the crushing, rushing crowd, Shaak closes her eyes and lets the city sing to her, it’s foundation of crystal humming with a thousand upon a thousand years of history.

“Your student is leaving you behind.” A young man comments with a surprisingly soft voice for a human male. Shaak blinks open her eyes and finds a young Shaman at her side, hands clasped passively, dark eyes lit with good humor and the depths of self-peace that marked a Master. In the shadow of a crystal-veined pillar several paces away, a slightly older Temple Guardian frowned at both of them disapprovingly, as if they might be snatched from the street at any moment and he would much prefer them to be inside.

“Ignore him.” The young Shaman comments, turning a sweet smile on the Gaurdian, who was of a similar age if an opposing disposition. “He is fussy and overprotective.”

“You were kidnapped two months ago!” The Guardian snaps roughly, strands of shoulder length dark hair slipping free of the tie that held it back.

“A mild misunderstanding!” The Shaman calls back cheerily. He turns back to Shaak and bows. “Chirrut Imwe, at your service, Master.”

“Master Shaak Ti, at yours.” She dips her head, lowering the crown of her montrals and peeking at the scowling Guardian. “Perhaps we _should_ ease his nerves and you can escort me inside. My padawan appears to be well ahead of us on that front.”

“When you are called,” Imwe remarks to that. “ you are called.”

~*~

“I can feel your disapproval from three levels away, Master Windu.” Ben comments lightly, not taking is eyes off the scrunched-faced group of initiates in front of him.

“Then your range is far too limited.” Mace Windu shoots back. “I can disapprove of you from three _planets_ away, Master Naasade.”

“Only three?” Ben remarks, voice lilting up. “You must be getting soft.”

Mace grunts, finally actually stepping into the room, walking with the care of someone who expected to find treacherous ground. Ben almost snorts at him – the future Master of the Order, afraid of the crèche. “What are you doing?” Mace snaps out the question, earning a sharp look from Master Se’sannima, who was rather enjoying her chance to meditate peacefully while someone else ensnared the attention of her boisterous clan.

“Playing a rather elaborate game of matching cards.” Ben replies easily, seated in the middle of twelve laid out decks, watching cards hesitantly dance in the air, carefully flipped over by sweating, focused younglings using only their minds.

“Teaching them inappropriate use of the Force.” Windu disapproves pointedly, and a few of the younglings hunch, their cards scattering to the ground, looking up guiltily, or scandalized, offering Ben betrayed looks. Others are too focused to have paid any heed to the words.

“Consider it a lesson in fine control.” Ben says irritably, shooting Master Windu a dirty look, which is mirrored back at him by the Harun Kal. Master Se’sannima sighs loudly at the both of them with narrowed eyes, and then pointedly returns to her meditation, lekku fluttering in agitation. Mace shifts guiltily, and Ben represses the urge to snort once more.

Afraid of the crèche _and_ still cowed by crèchemasters.

“I consider it-“ The councilor breaks off in a full body shudder.

Ben gasps, spine going rigid, and a scream _tears_ through the Force, followed by a wave of darkness every master in the temple can recognize as a sharp and brutal Fall.

But Ben is the only master who recognizes it with more than simple piercing horror, because he’s felt it before, felt _this_ Fall before-

“ _Quinlan_.”


	10. Chapter 10

_Tell me we didn’t kill her, tell me we didn’t kill her – “_ Ahsoka _!” “Ahsoka!”_

_Make them stop dying, please, make them stop dying-_

_“What are we doing, general? What are we? – He made us kill our own brothers!” I don't know. Don't you realize that? I don't know!_

_“Obi-Wan, my darling Obi-Wan, I’m afraid I have to say goodbye now…” She purred, and then she left, she left him there to die._

_They knighted my padawan. How could they knight my padawan? He wasn’t ready! I wasn’t ready!_

_“It hides too much of your handsome face.” Her caress was soft, and warm, and he could buckle for craving her-_

_“Satine? Satine!”_

_Do they really think they’re the least bit subtle? How obviously do I have to look away to give them a clue?_

_“Commander CC-2224, Sir!”_

_“Don’t you have a name?”_

_“CC-2224, sir.”_

_“That isn’t a name.” He sighed, and felt doubt creep into his bones, deeper and deeper. This is wrong. This is all wrong._

_The Temple was cold, the Temple was so cold, and so quiet. So quiet, when the Force was screaming, and he came too late. Too late for all of them, crumpled there, just younglings, just-_

It was a tide, a torrent, an ocean with no end, and he couldn’t get out, and he couldn’t – He was Obi-Wan Kenobi, but he wasn’t Obi-Wan Kenobi, he was Quinlan Vos, but Quinlan Vos was a Knight, a Master, Fallen, and he was, he was-

What was he?

What-

_“One would think your master would have trained you better, Kenobi.” Dooku sneered, and fury burned within him like a frost._

_“Don’t you dare-“ He snarls, more a storm than a man._

_He’s screaming at ghosts. “You died!” He throws the bottle, watching it skitter across the sand dune. “You died, you bastard! And I never forgave you for it! How could you- how could you!” He sobs, shattering against the empty wastes and the unforgiving stars, and the memory of a man who couldn’t have spared one single last word for him. Just_ him _._

_“Anakin, how could you? You were my brother! I **loved** you!”_

_“Just kill me! Just kill me, please. I know what I am.” Quinlan begs, eyes a sickly yellow above the yellow stripe across his nose and cheeks._

_“Then you know what you can do.” Obi-Wan begs in turn,reaching out in the hopes that he doesn’t have to do this again. He doesn’t want to bury another friend. Not like this. Not like this . “Fight it, Quin. Please, just fight it. Don’t ask this of me. Please don’t as this of me.”_

_“I can’t, Obi, I can’t-“ He grabs Obi-Wans hand, jerking the unlit saber up to his chest, wrapping both hands around it so Obi-Wan can't let go, can't pull away, stinging with darkness. “Just do it, Obi-Wan just do it. Kill me.”_

_“I can’t-“_

_“You coward!” His face contorts into a snarl, black and inhuman. “Just kill me! Kill me, you coward, kill me-!”_

_~*~_

“Quinlan?” Ben asks softly, stepping into his quarters. The other masters aren’t here yet. Ben tried to…obscure the source of the darkness, but they’ll work through that quickly enough.

“What – what did we do?” Quinlan gasps. He’s standing in the open space of the room, trembling from head to toe. Tears stream down his face, from sickly yellow eyes above the tattooed yellow stripe, and in his shaking hand…

In his shaking hand, Ben’s old lightsaber. It ignites with a low _thrum_ , spilling silver-blue light across the room. “Obi? What did we do?”

His gaze lifts, and he pins Ben with an agonized glare.

“Oh, _Quin_.” Ben breathes softly, shuddered by grief upon grief.

“N-no…” The boy stumbles back a little, lifting a hand as if to ward him off, the saber scoring the floor. “He- he doesn’t c-call me that I’m not- I’m not-“ His voice cracks, and he curls in on himself, sobbing. “Who am I? I d-don’t- I c-c-can’t – there’s too much - there’s too much inside my head! What did we _do_?”

“Quinlan, put it down.” Ben pleads softly, hands splayed at his sides as he takes a cautious step forward. The blade sings upward, pointed at his chest from across the room.

“It’s not- I _can’t_!” He screeches, eyes wide and terrified. “It’s _inside my head_! It’s _me_!”

The blade wobbles chaotically, and Quinlan heaves for air, like he’s drowning.

“I know. I know, Quin. I’m sorry. _I am so sorry_. Please.” Ben pleads, voice waveringly soft. “Please just put the blade down. It won’t go away, I can’t make it go away, but it will quiet, Quin. You know that. It will quiet.”

“They made me forget, the first time.” Quinlan shudders, trapped in the places between lives. “Like Ahsoka. Like – like Anakin. As if _that_ worked. Oh gods. Oh gods. You _brought him here_!” Quinlan shrieks furiously, and lunges.

Ben’s blade is out flicker quick, and still the heat is close enough to sear his face when the blades crash, grinding down with the sheer wild force of the teenagers swing, copper crackling against blue. Both blades thrum dangerously. Ben forces the boy off, tossing him back.

“Quinlan!” He snaps. “Don’t do this.” He begs, voice dropping back down. “Please don’t do this.”

“He ruined everything! He killed us! He killed all of us!” Quinlan screams, a roiling cloud of cold and dark raging around him in the Force, snapping with uncontrolled power and riven, nasty emotions. "He slaughtered them. They were just....th-they were just younglings and he cut them down. They trusted him. We trusted him! And _look at what he did to us_!

“He’s a _child_!” Ben shouts back desperately.

“You _COWARD_!” Quinlan rages, swinging the blade and scoring across the floor, the wall, the table, vines of Ben’s plants shriveling and falling apart under the blistering heat. “You should have killed him!”

“ _I know that_!” Ben rages back, just as furious and guilty and afraid as the boy before him, just as confused and lost. A drop trails down the edge of his face, prickling into his beard, clinging to the strands. “I know that.” Ben repeats, defeated. “But I love him.”

Quinlan glares at him, seething, still gasping for air. “Gods, I hate you.” Quinlan sobs, whole body shuddering. The blade dips in his hands, and the boys lip trembles.

“Join the club, Quin.” Ben cracks, voice broken.

Quinlan laughs, chokes, and collapses toward the floor, dropping to his knees, the blade searing into the stone, hissing violently. “I’m not – he – he held your lightsaber and he should have known better and I should have….but I’m…I don’t know. I don’t _know_ who is in my head. I remember him, and he’s me, but he’s not and it’s you, it’s all….you, and I….” He cries, bitterly and helplessly, and darkness spools around him, fed by pain and desperation and the pervasive, clinging hope that its power could save him. “What did we do?” He repeats.

Ben doesn’t have an answer for him, and doesn’t have the time to answer him regardless. The door behind him swicks open, and Mace Windu and two others Masters slip through. Their blades are drawn, and Ben turns sharply, lifting his own defensively.

“ _Naasade_.” Windu warns, gaze darting beyond him to Quinlan, the councilor’s pallor turning stark at the stinging yellow taint in the padawan’s gaze.

“You aren’t touching him.” Ben warns in turn, blade a burning line before him. “It’s not his fault.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this was a short chapter. But hey, two updates in one day. Back from my work trip now, and I think I only missed one day, so kudos to me.


	11. Chapter 11

Coruscant is home, but Obi-Wan doesn’t think he’ll ever get over the feel of natural worlds, over the sweeter, cleaner taste of them, of the air in his lungs, and the Force thrumming through his bones, and up from the world beneath.

Guiltily, he is one of those who never quite stopped believing in magic, even with all his education and all his knowledge of the Force. The quiet of night time is deeper here, the sounds that disturb it far stranger and more haunting, as he makes his way across the open air walkways, obeying a summons.

The stars sparkle ahead, faint, but not utterly obscured by the city, and the breeze tickles his skin. A summons from the Duke of Mandalore.

Obi-Wan’s nerves are absolutely singing with anxiety.

It’s one thing for Jango Fett to swoop up on them at a space port and cry challenge after having received an interesting rumor from a contact of his who apparently overheard a few drunk, chatty, grumbling Jedi mention something about _winning Master Naasade’s padawan_ , and another to be formally called before a world leader while on a diplomatic mission.

For one, Fett didn’t stand on a lot of formality.

For two, Obi-Wan’s first meeting with the _Mand’alor_ involved overdosing on spice and forgetting the whole thing, and that didn’t leave him a lot of dignity left to lose on that front.

Obi-Wan doesn’t want to be an embarrassment to the people he represents here; his master, and the Jedi Order, and possibly even the _Mand’alor_.

Obi-Wan guides himself inside, down a corridor with a transparisteel floor that quietly gave him the heebie-jeebies, though he was tempted to get a holophoto of himself standing on it just to see Padawan Chias blanche at the – absolutely beautiful, of course – sheer drop below.

It’s a nicely distracting thought that gets him across to the next stretch of tile, and up to the doors of the Duke’s suite. Obi-Wan takes a steadying breath, and presses the chime.

“ _Spirba o’r_.” He’s called in immediately, and the doors snick open.

Obi-Wan enters sedately, with all the poise of his Jedi training, and walks to the circling edge of the sitting area the Duke is occupying, lounged back with his shirt-collars loosened and a glass in his hand that smells of spices.

“ _Pehea ni gaa'tayl, Jorad’alor_?” Obi-Wan inquires courteously.

“If you were not a Jedi succored and raised on Coruscant,” The Duke muses, pale green eyes fey and piercing. “I would swear that accent is pure Concord Dawn.”

Obi-Wan bites the inside of his cheek, and does not reply. The Duke snorts lightly, takes a sip of his drink, and gestures for Obi-Wan to take a seat. The Duke eyes him up and down, critical and evaluative, not unlike Ni Hiella in full Healer mode.

Not unlike Master Ben, when he thinks Obi-Wan isn’t looking, actually.

“Have you ever been to the Mandalore System, Padawan Kenobi?” The Duke inquires, his voice holding the same low, smooth quality hinted at in his daughters.

“Yes.” Obi-Wan answers honestly.

“To Mandalore?” He inquires.

“Yes.”

“Krownest? Kalevala? Mandallia?” The Duke inquires, eyes glittering, and Obi-Wan swallows, recognizing the very specific order of that list.

He nods, and the Duke lets out a tired puff of air. “Then the rumors about Fett’s survival are true.”

“You…didn’t know that?” Obi-Wan asks, wincing after the words left is mouth.

“He’s a difficult man to track.” Duke Kryze tilts his glass idly. “Even when he _isn’t_ actively avoiding you. I’d hoped…but I was never certain that the rumor of his survival wasn’t just…propaganda to stir up the Death Watch.”

Obi-Wan tips his head a little. Their departure from Mandalore had been a little rough and abrupt, and Fett had never told Obi-Wan why. The _Mand’alor_ had merely been terse and edgy and…uncomfortable. It was the only time he’d avoided looking Obi-Wan in the eye, as they stumbled around each other in the predawn, rushing to take off.

Obi-Wan studies the Duke, looking pensive, and feels some of his anxiety slough off of him, dissipating into the Force.

“He was sold into slavery, after the Jedi turned him over to the Governor of Galidraan.” Obi-Wan says. “My master and I found him on a Spice Freighter several months ago and together they uh…liberated the ship.”

“How the fuck did you find him?” The Duke wonders aloud.

“Sheer dumb luck.” Obi-Wan shrugs, and the Duke laughs, though it sounds a little bitter.

“Sheer dumb luck.” He repeats. “I could use a little of that.” He sighs, leaning forward, and looks weary to the bone. It’s a look Obi-Wan is far too familiar with.

“What do you want from him?” Obi-Wan asks quietly. Adonai Kryze looks up, gaze sharp as flint, and raises a hand to his weathered face, brushing a knuckle down the length of his jaw.

“I want him to be the _Mand’alor_. I want him to help me help our people.” Kryze admits, dropping his hand. “The clans respect me, they’ll listen to me, but we _believe_ in the _Mand’alor_. Jaster Mereel was a visionary, but he was also a damn stubborn mule. He demanded all or nothing, and our people fractured even further. Fett honored Mereel, and his teachings, but he was always more adaptable, and in many ways…Mereel may have been a visionary,” Kryze repeats. “But Fett was _strong_. Our people need that strength now. _I_ need that strength now.”

“He doesn’t know if he still has it.” Obi-Wan confesses. Fett had carried around a sense of desperate, urgent purpose, always seeking something he felt was just out of reach. It had made him restless and driven, and it was painfully familiar behavior, if far less well disguised than Ben Naasade’s. It had showed Obi-Wan something he still wasn’t sure he was ready to see.

“I don’t blame him.” Kryze sighs, smoothing back his silver-blonde hair. “I don’t blame him.”

“How bad is it?” Obi-Wan asks. “On Mandalore?”

 

“Well, we aren’t openly slaughtering each other in the streets yet, but between the collapsing ecosystem, the collapsing economy, the sabotage, the food shortages and the terrorist attacks….” Kryze shakes his head. “I don’t know how much longer I can hold it all together. Death Watch is getting bolder, and the New Mandalorians won’t compromise.”

“Mandalorians aren’t very good at compromise.” Obi-Wan points out. “Pacifists or not.”

Kryze offers him a sour look, and then his lips quirk in self-recrimination. “Truer words have not been spoken. I just don’t know what to do. One side wants to turn us all into warring conquerors again, toppling other systems and absorbing them into our rule, into our way;” He sighs. “And the other wants us to give up everything that made us who we are, to destroy our history and culture to pave way for their idealistic new future where they can pretend that all that came before did not exist. The Old Clans are caught in the middle, and the True Mandalorian aren’t here to level the tides. By all the stars, I wish we’d had the sense to side with them when we had the chance.”

“Why didn’t you?” Obi-Wan asks.

“The supercommando code was honorable, just, and disciplined. It lessened the brutality of the old code and was designed to survive in the times ahead.” Kryze explains. “Have you read it?”

“What do you think I was doing with Fett?” Obi-Wan asks dryly. “I don’t have it memorized yet, but I understand the intention of it.”

“Then you understand that it did not compromise either. If you were Mandalorian – True Mandalorian, you were sworn to obey. Mereel didn’t understand that some of us just wanted peace. Some of us wanted a life without violence. Some of us _needed_ it.”

It’s not what Obi-Wan expects to hear from a warlord, from a man who leads his people with martial force. Kryze can read the surprise on his face, and shakes his head. “Some of us want the choice, at least.” He adds. “We’ve never known a life without war. It makes you wonder what it’s like.”

“ _Sa sarad_.” Obi-Wan recites. _As flowers_.

Kryze cracks a smile that is also painfully familiar. “ _Sa sarad_.” He copies. “And when you’ve faced the crucible? When you have served with honor, when you have learned who you are? Do we not deserve rest?”

“The supercommando code demands a lifetime of service.” Obi-Wan says softly, the picture coming together in his mind. He hadn’t quite understood what that meant for a Mandalorian because Obi-Wan was a Jedi. A lifetime of service was all he’d ever know.

But the Jedi served, and then the Jedi went home; the Jedi had sanctuary.

Mandalore did not.

“I can’t fight a war forever.” Kryze says bitterly. “And I can’t fight a war on both sides, let alone my own people.” The Duke admits. “What am I supposed to do?”

“I don’t think I can answer that.” Obi-Wan says sadly, _And I think powerful people should stop asking me that question. I’m just…me._

“Aren’t you one of us?” Duke Kryze huffs.

“I’m a Jedi first.” Obi-Wan says, hands clasped over his knees. “I can’t ever truly swear to the _Resol’nare_.”

“I suppose there is that.” The older man admits softly. “But there is something else I think you can do for me.”

“Put you in contact with the _Mand’alor_? He’ll _adore_ me for that.” Obi-Wan mutters, glowering at the floor, already knowing he would do it. Fett would likely be pissed, but the _Mand’alor_ owed his people as much as they owed him. Fett couldn’t hide from that forever.

“In addition to that.” The Duke smiles faintly, and it eases the lines of his face. “I…have a personal favor to ask.”

Obi-Wan looks up and locks gazes with the older man, a man who literally has the fate of an entire system on his shoulders, who is looking at Obi-Wan as if Obi-Wan holds the last spark of hope.

“Do you know my youngest daughter was only six, the first time an assassin tried to take her life?” Kryze comments, voice soft and cold with old anger.

Obi-Wan shivers, appalled, and shakes his head.

“Her older sister saved her.” He smiles, and it is the saddest smile. “My two girls, paying for what I had done. What I am still doing.” He shakes his head. “There were three such attempts, by the time Satine was eleven, so I sent her to Coruscant, where I hoped she’d be safe. This is the first time I’ve seen her in three years, and I don’t think she’s quite forgiven me.” He takes another swallow of his spicy drink, and offers it to Obi-Wan, who accepts cautiously.

Heat floods his mouth at the first sip, pooling in his belly and burning in his sinuses. His eyes water, but he doesn’t cough. Mandalorian’s _liked_ spicy things, and Fett had given him a thorough introduction to that pallet. How he and Master Ben slurped down those red noodles, however, Obi-Wan still can’t comprehend.

“I brought her here because once again, her life is in danger, and it was not safe for her to stay where she was. I’m not going to suffer the screaming row hiring her a guard would take, but a father can ask, one mandalorian to another, that you watch over her for a little while? I had hoped the Jedi would be ameniable, but to discover a Mandalorian Jedi among you was...fortuitous.”

Obi-Wan thinks about that, and gives the man a narrow-eyed look. “So _I_ can suffer the screaming row when she figures it out?”

Adonai Kryze laughs. “You know that much about our people, at least.”

 _What am I supposed to do_? Obi-Wan sighs to himself. _Say no_?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MANDO'A
> 
> Spirba o’r = come in
> 
> Pehea ni gaa'tayl, Jorad’alor? = how many i serve, he-who-is-the-voice-of-the-people?
> 
> Sa sarad = as flowers. Referencing the epitaph of the tomb of the First Mand'alore. 
> 
> sa sarad cuyir gotal de pitat, runi cuyir gotal de akaan =  
> As flowers are grown by rain, so is the soul grown by war. 
> 
> Epitaph:  
> As flowers are grown by rain, so is the soul grown by war. From suffering comes compassion, from cruelty; mercy, from violence; peace. We are not born when we come into this world. We are born when we learn who we are, and we can only learn by being tested. Adversity is the crucible, honor is the way, and enlightenment the reward.


	12. Chapter 12

He can see Mace Windu weighing the odds, as he glances aside at each of his companions. Ben doesn’t know these masters, though he recognizes one as being a vague neighbor on a nocturnal rotation, large black eyes suggesting a night-dwelling species.

The master of vapaad glances aside at them, and then at Ben, critically tense. The quarters are tight, and Ben had them blocked in the small entryway.

He can see the gritting resignation in the harun kal’s eyes, recognizing that they aren’t going to win that fight without severe harm – resignation, and _relief_.

Mace Windu does not want to fight him, does not want….any of this.

He lowers his blade, and it disignites with a snap. The other two masters lower theirs, but don’t shut them down. Ben keeps his guard up.

“What happened?” Master Windu asks. Ben can feel the darkness churning behind him, Quinlan’s fear, and the violent promise of untapped power at the teenagers raw, confused command.

“We died.” The teenagers spits. “Or we f-fell or-“

“Quinlan.” Ben says softly, turning his head enough to see the glow of the saber still hissing against the stone floor, but not enough to lock eyes with the boy. Quinlans breath comes raggedly, and he quiets.

Mace lifts a harsh brow, and Ben shakes his head a little.

“He picked up my old lightsaber.” Ben explains, locking gazes with the other master. “He’s sixteen, he wasn’t prepared for that.”

“How the kriff does a lightsaber make a Fall?” One of the other master’s growls, a burly Graan.

“He’s a psychometric.” Ben and Mace both growl back. “That lightsaber was my life.” Ben adds.

Behind him, Quinlan cracks a dark laugh that turns into another harsh sob, breath coming fast and light – too fast.

“Quinlan, you need to let go of it.” Ben reminds the boy, who keens low in his throat.

“They’ll kill me.” Quinlan snaps harshly, and Ben can hear the thrum of the saber being lifted away from the stone as the teenager stands up, and Ben quietly wills him not to.

“They won’t.” Ben promises, standing firm between the masters and the padawan. “Quinlan, I swear to you they won’t. I won’t let them hurt you. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

“I’m not the first person you’ve made that promise to.” Quinlan snarls, and Ben feels a cold, sharp pain run through his chest. _No_ , he acknowledges in his bruised heart. _You aren’t_.

“I’ll make the same promise, Padawan Vos.” Mace calls, eyes turning back to the boy, full of the Master’s certainty. “We can fix this.”

“ _How_?” Quinlan rages, and Ben can feel the heat of the saber as he draws nearer, and grits his teeth, telling himself not to flinch, not to react, not to turn on the boy. “Make me forget? So I don’t know _why_ I feel like this? Why darkness is whispering in the back of my head? In my bones? So I can’t remember the reason you’ll look at me like I am a bomb waiting to go off? So I can _doubt_?”

“It won’t be like that.” Mace swears.

“Don’t make that promise.” Ben snaps at him, full of grief and guilt. And shame. “You won’t be able to keep it.”

Ben had thought if he ignored what happened on Mortis, if he pretended that the memories simply weren’t there, that it would go away.

And it hadn’t.

He’d convinced himself that Anakin’s Fall there had been a trick of the Son, and he had been lying to himself.

Anakin forgot. Ahsoka forgot. But Ben didn’t. Anakin had demanded to know what happened, when Ben flinched one too many times, and Ben had simply evaded him, until there wasn’t time left to argue, until they were back on the battlefront, and it wouldn’t matter anymore.

Except it did.

“Then what the karking hell do you suggest?” Mace snapped, tensed on the edge, his own presence in the Force simmering with focused power, shielding him from Quinlan’s lashing, roiling aura.

“That we help him.” Ben say forcefully turning a glare on the nocturnal master, who looked as if he was considering doing something very unwise.

“You can’t _help_ a darksider-“ The Graan snaps.

“The fuck I can.” Ben snarls. “It is the failing of the Jedi that we never try.”

Stalemate, thick and bitter, as the masters glare at each other.

If the Force were a song, then something in it rises, building an building, high and shrill and a warning-

Ben summons his old lightsaber to his free hand, whirling on the boy behind him, dropping his own saber in haste, jerking the blue blade out of the padawans grip before he can complete the twist-

The masters behind him lunge, and Quinlan snatches for the lightsaber, eyes full of hate and despair “ _NO_!” He shrieks, and _yanks_ with the Force-

Ben, in the same moment, _shoves_ , getting the boy out of the sweep of the blue lightsaber – the two waves build on each other, cracking like thunder. His body, flung across the room, snaps against the back wall and falls bonelessly, tumbling off the sofa and collapsing on the floor.

“Quin!” Ben cries, rushing forward in panic, as Mace Windu snarls something behind him in bodily altercation with his companions, but Ben doesn’t care-

“Quinlan, Quinlan.” He drops to his knees beside the limp teenager, fingers running through the short, springy dreadlocks and feeling over his skull. Blood seeps through his hair, coating Ben’s fingers, and he draws one hand down to the padawans shoulder, shaking him lightly. “Quinlan, can you hear me? Quin?”

“Is he?” Ben flinches when Mace appears at his side, dropping one dark hand to the teenagers chest in concern, his skin crackling with power that sizzles against the Force around Quinlan Vos.

The boy whimpers, eyes fluttering, but doesn’t wake, and soon falls completely limp again.

“Healers. Now.” Mace commands, and Ben carefully sweeps the teenager up, cradling his skull and cursing his lanky limbs.

The other masters stand by in shock as they pass, Ben too afraid of jostling Quinlan and risk injuring him further to run, but enhancing his steps with the Force nonetheless, practically gliding over the floor with Mace clearing the way.

His heart is pounding, and the Force is still screaming with warning, Quin’s blood tacky on his hands, soaking into his tunics. He’s cold to the touch, an effect of the Dark Side of the Force, and it makes Ben tremble, because he’s held bodies as they’ve gone cold before-

 _I’m stupid, so stupid. How could I have missed this_? Ben berates himself viciously, condemned by his own carelessness.

Shock and fear follow them as they hurry through the corridors, jarring in the Force, and Ben lurches with the sudden _shriek_ of danger he feels, gripping Quinlan tighter with a tight hitch of fear –

Darkness covering darkness, Ben doesn’t even register the other presence until the lightsaber is being buried in his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, another short chapter, but oh - my love of drama.


	13. Chapter 13

When Obi-Wan has to hastily dodge to one side a _fourth_ time, he decides that Padawan Tanwaze is a menace and should never be given a real lightsaber.

“Sorry!” The little twi’lek squeaks, lowering his training blade.

“Katas should be a little more…self-contained, Padawan Tanwaze.” Master Vumoyo reminds the boy, whose complexion hides his blush. “But perhaps that is enough of a warm-up for now.” He adds, looking over all the padawans.

They nodded dutifully, though Sian gives another pleased twirl of her pink-bladed lightsaber. Obi-Wan understands the expression on her face completely. When he’d first built his saber, he’d felt like he could stare at the thrumming bright green-blue blade of light for hours.

Or at least until he started damaging his eyes, as his master had reminded him of.

Early morning in Atansurrat had been accompanied by a slightly discordant melody of chimes, and the padawans were rousted up by Master Vumoyo for a training session before the day began properly. Negotiations would take place after shadow-pass, as they had the day before, but a rail tour of the capitol and the surrounding territory had been arranged for them later in the morning. The Moia were a peaceful people, but they were also very proud of all they had accomplished. They seemed to relish the chance to show off.

The sky was clear, stained with yellow from the upcoming sun, and a shining fog swirled over the river valley, the mountains a stark pallet of yellow-green slopes and blue to lavender shadows. Obi-Wan could fall in love with this place. Or at least with this courtyard, and its views.

He takes a deep breath, watching a pair of four-winged birds wheel in the distance, and tries to settle the uncomfortable chill that presses down on his chest, prickling across his sternum and fading away. Something felt…wrong, but it also felt far away.

“Padawan Kenobi?” Master Vumoyo calls, with the tone that says he has already done so at least once.

Obi-Wan jerks his gaze away from the birds and towards the mirialan master, sheepish. “Yes, Master Vumoyo?”

“If you would.” The Master prompts, gesturing towards his padawan, who is waiting patiently for him, with her green-bladed lightsaber in hand.

“Oh.” Obi-Wan swallows tightly, nervous. He wants Obi-Wan to spar Luminara, and that is…

Laughable.

Embarrassment crawls in his belly, as he tries to find the words to politely extract himself, because Luminara Unduli may only be three years his senior, but she has been a Padawan Learner for _six_ years, compared to his lonely one. “I don’t think…”

“ _Obi_.” Sian mutters, and pushes him towards the older padawan. Obi-Wan glowers at her, and Master Vumoyo pretends not to have noticed anything amiss.

“My name has another syllable.” He grumbles back, and takes a deep breath, turning towards Luminara Unduli and her slightly teasing smile.

“Not to fear, Padawan Kenobi.” The mirialan senior padawan says gently. “I’ll go easy on you. It’s part of the learning process to spar with someone who _isn’t_ your master.”

“I know.” Obi-Wan says sullenly, not admitting that Master Ben rarely sparred him so much as led him around the salle.

Luminara lifts a brow, and Obi-Wan lifts his chin a little, gathering his pride and moving into proper place. He has to give Padawan Tanwaze a warning look for the boy to back out of the sparring area, and even then it’s Sian who makes sure the boy gets out of harms way.

“What form do you favor?” Luminara inquires.

Obi-Wan feels the embarrassment in his belly churn, because he doesn’t have a favored form yet, because nothing seems to suite. “Soresu.” He fibs. Master Vumoyo tilts his head, eyeing him appraisingly at that, and Obi-Wan can feel his ears redden. Sian Jeisel outright frowns, crossing her arms before remembering that she needs to keep one hand on Padawan Tanwaze.

Luminara quirks a brow, smiling. “Myself as well. Unfortunately, Soresu versus Soresu does not exactly a spar make, so we shall have to extend ourselves.”

Obi-Wan sighs a little, and nods glumly. A form that relies on impenetrable defense end endurance, that gave up the opportunity to attack, no, did not make for a spar.

“When you’re ready to begin, padawans.” Master Vumoyo prompts them, earning an acknowledging tilt of the head from his poised student.

“Shall we?” She asks Obi-Wan, who nods, setting his balance and lifting his guard. It’s a makashi stance, drilled into him during one of Master Dooku’s intensive visits. She studies his stance critically, looking a little surprised, but adjusts her own with ease and serenity.

Obi-Wan waits, hands clammy, pulse thundering in his throat, quietly hoping no one laughs when he-

She lunges and Obi-Wan dives, skittering his blade down the length of hers and forcing her to turn as he trades places with her. She’s quick to wheel – quicker than Obi-Wan would have thought, her blade almost immediately jabbing towards his chest, and Obi-Wan jerks his own, reversing the grip to force her blow aside. It puts him at an award angle, and he dances out of the way. She lets her blade fall aside under the force of his and lunges closer, sweeping her blade back up. Instead of letting her force him back again, Obi-Wan lunges as well, throwing himself inside her guard, past the rising strike, and back around her, forcing her to turn again. He lets his grip spin as he pulls past, and scores a sear across her arm.

“One point.” Master Vumoyo calls, when she hisses.

“Interesting strategy.” Luminara remarks, narrowing her eyes. “Most opponents don’t throw themselves at each other.”

“You’ve got a longer reach than I do.” Obi-Wan points out, waiting for her next move, watching the fluid shift of muscle along her arms, and the subtle repositioning of her feet. “And you’re stronger than I am.” He admits.

“Thank you.” She smiles, and leaps, forcing him down with nowhere to go. Obi-Wan lifts his blade and blocks, green crackling against cyan, dropping him to one knee as she bears down.

 _This’ll hurt! This’ll hurt_! His mind panics, and Obi-Wan heaves, shunting his blade along hers to the hilt, searing both their hands, but weakening her grip as her blade slides down – too close to his back, scoring a hot line – and he rolls forward, almost smacking himself with his own saber as he does.

He rockets to his feet just in time to parry another swift slice at his abdomen.

“Two points to two.” Master Vumoyo calls, frowning at the severity of the blistering marks on their hands. “Padawan Kenobi, lower the power on your blade.”

“This is my lowest setting.” Obi-Wan replies, eyes never leaving Luminara. She holds back, studying him critically, and Obi-Wan curses himself and goes for it, lunging in. Her guard snaps up and their blades barely touch before he flicks his away and darts it down towards her side. They trade a flurry of glancing, hissing touches of blades, and apparently soresu can meet soresu, if you are standing in each others personal space, close enough that offense and defense are one and the same.

Obi-Wan can’t get an edge against the more experienced padawan, not with his saber. He slings his blade, locked with hers, down to the side, and levers himself against her, slamming his back into her chest and throwing an elbow back, knocking the breath from her and seeing stars when her chin slams down on his skull before she staggers back. Obi-Wan chases, lifting his blade and driving it down, her block falters, still gasping, one hand instinctively covering the rib he’d compressed, and Obi-Wan presses his advantage, twisting their blades up and kicking at her shin.

She trips, and he twirls his blade to dive right down at her heart as she hits the ground. Her eyes widen, free hand flinging up, and Obi-Wan stops, blade hovering.

Both of them stare at each other in shock.

“You didn’t have to go _that_ easy on me.” Obi-Wan blurts out.

“Three points to two.” Master Vumoyo remarks neutrally. “And I would call that a critical strike.”

“She could have rolled.” Obi-Wan points out, disbelieving that the match ended in his favor. “Or kicked me.” He had completely abandoned his defense for an overhand strike.

“I froze.” Luminara acknowledges, as Obi-Wan backs up and lowers his blade so that she can rise. She stands, giving him a cool look, and remarks. “How about a one point match? Now that we’ve got a feel for each other.”

Obi-Wan nods in agreement, his blood and nerves still singing.

“Without me going _easy_.” She adds, something odd in her eyes as she says it. She flicks her blade, relaxing her shoulders.

She doesn’t strike first. She waits, and Obi-Wan waits, watching the glint in her eyes. Eventually, he admits that she will wait all day, steels himself, and lunges.

She blocks low, forces his guard up, and _drives_ her knee into his stomach.

~*~

“Faith, and the Force of others.” Chirrut says, replying to a query Shaak Ti did not catch, her mind occupied by her surroundings, and her senses attuned to the little boy wandering out of his mothers reach, darting around columns and vanishing, ducking through the gaps between strangers, and causing the Jedi Master no undue amount of worry.

Force, how did mothers survive the fretting? Or crèchemasters, for that matter.

 _This_ , Shaak thinks, _this is why the old masters forbid children. How does one not grow old before their time, beholding their padawans offspring_?

Shmi seems remarkably unbothered by his escapades.

“You are not a Jedi?” Shmi inquires, surprised.

“No.” Chirrut replies with a smile, guiding Shmi through the Hall of Murals, vast, incredibly detailed depictions spanning the walls, the arches ceilings, even some sprawling across the floor, carefully preserved under transparisteel. Great events wrought in immaculate color, their origins, their names, their players long lost to written record. Only here are those ancient memories preserved, for following generations to marvel at, and wonder. “I am a Shaman of the Whills, and Baze Malbus, _skulking back there_ ,” He lifts his voice cheerfully and earns the guardians sour look, “ is a Guardian of the Whills. It is our sacred duty to look after this Holy City, and defend her, in times of adversity.”

“But is this not a Jedi Temple?” Shmi asks, glancing back at Shaak Ti.

“It is a Temple of the Force, and it is the home of many faiths, and many Orders.” Chirrut explains, his smile shining a little brighter when Anakin gasps aloud, clearly awed by whatever he has found. Shaak Ti scans for him, thinking a boy in bright yellow and white tunics should be easier to find. “All are welcome here, to find solace, to seek enlightenment, or simply enjoy the wonders we hold.”

“It’s beautiful.” Shmi murmurs, casting her gaze to the arches above them, to the colors gleaming in the light spilling in from high windows, her senses dancing with the rich and vibrant feel of the Force here, so much louder, in a way, than it was on Coruscant.

“I’ve always thought so, yes.” Chirrut agrees, gaze roaming over the murals, basking in the sight with genuine joy. “But come, there is much more to see.” He remarks.


	14. Chapter 14

It is not so much the stabbing, as it is the fact that he is forced to drop Quinlan Vos as his own body buckles that really _pisses him off_.

And Ben, at the moment, would very much like to act on that, except he can’t quite get his feet back under himself, and the cold-throbbing-pain rioting through his body leaves him gasping, and gasping, and gasping.

But his enemy is towering over him, four blades lifted to strike down, a scene from a hundred and more battles. Familiar adrenaline floods his body, and Ben won’t leave like this, won’t lose like this. He snarls, clamping a hand over the gaping, charred wound in his side, half crouched over Anakins body, and he throws the Force at Grievous.

Electric, snapping power floods him, overwriting pain and allowing him to stagger to his feet. His vision blackens and clears with every heartbeat, and he tries to summon his saber, but he can’t find it. He doesn’t remember where he dropped it.

“ _Traitor_.” Grievous snarls, stolen blades spinning, a lumbering silhouette in Ben’s pulsing vision.

“Traitor?” Ben snaps, rasping, bewildered and furious by the accusation. “You and I were never on the same side, _Grievous_.” He spits, and he can taste metal in the back of his mouth, wet and slick.

“Master _Krell_!” Someone shouts, panicked, and Ben can’t focus, feeling his balance slide. He draws deeper on the Force, using it to support his body as it stands. _I have to protect Anakin._ He blinks, glancing down. That isn’t…that’s too small. _Or…or Ahsoka?_

“You are a poisonous seed within this order.” Grievous booms, and Ben shakes his head, because the sounds…because that’s not the right voice… “And I will carve you out, and your darkness with you.”

He charges, and Ben reaches up with the Force, his senses slipping past burning plasma and deadly heat, latching on to the body, _knowing_ this practice was forbidden, was vile and wrong, and _rending_ with the Force. Ben will die - is dying - before he’ll let anyone strike down his padawan, or his grandpadawan.

Bones snap and muscles tear, and his enemy _screams_.

Several bystanders cry out, and that’s strange, that there are people here, when shouldn’t there be……. _droids…_?

Someone sobs, young and frightened, and Ben turns, because he should help them, he needs to help them-

~*~

“That’s salacious!” Satta declares. “We won’t agree to it.”

Padawan Unduli, serenely sipping a cup of tea while she observes the younglings rather deliberatory settlements of terms, promptly chokes, and the Mo’Tasi official supervising them startles with a brief expression of mortification.

The younger Jedi Padawans share confused looks.

“That’s not quite the word you’re looking for, I think.” Master Vumoyo says diplomatically, idly patting his coughing padawan on the shoulder while she recomposed herself.

Satta tails twitches, bemused. “Oh.” She says. “Doesn’t it mean ridiculous? I thought it was a fancy word for ridiculous.”

“Ah, no.” Master Vumoyo replies. The Ia’Tasi frowns, which is a frightful expression on even her young face, given the wide mouths and severe jaws of the reptilian species.

“Then what does salacious mean?” She inquires, and Master Vumoyo looks to the Mo’Tasi official for assistance.

“If you are using words you do not know, _Mim_ Satta, perhas you should spend your evening hour with the dictorial records?” The Mo’Tasi official suggests. Satta sinks a little in her seat, tail flopping sullenly.

“But I thought I knew what it meant.” She pouts.

“Why is _this_ the thing you find ridiculous?” Sian recovers their topic, tapping on the display table, highlighting the terms of contention.

“Because it egreg-“ Satta pauses mid-word, glances over her shoulder at the Mo’Tasi Official, and decides she isn’t going to test the limits of her vocabulary again. “Because it unfairly limits our medical advancement. My species wouldn’t have survived without chromosomal re-engineering after the cataclysm of Atan’Ia, and the Moia have successfully combated pandemics with such research!”

Despite their childishness, at times, and their obvious youth which the Moia so reveres, they are exceedingly well educated for their roles, the Jedi find.

“That wasn’t available in the senatorial dossier.” Sian says, frowning at their accumulated stacks of datapads. “If your medical technology is in contention, we need a full survey and review before considering an exception for your entry into the Galactic Republic regarding the Inter-Planetary Medical Accords.”

“Can’t we be annexed and then petition for exception?” Innin inquired.

“I wouldn’t recommend it.” Sian says, before Master Vumoyo can speak. The Jedi Master lifts a brow, shares a glance with his padawan, and leans back in his seat to observe. “The senate is a notoriously slow body, and once you have already given them access to the resources they desire from your system, they’ll be far less obliged to accede to your requests. Your system would be better off being patient at the outset, allowing the review, and settling terms prior to admittance.”

Innan and Satta share a considerate look, and Padawan Tanwaze’s lekku twitch. The Moia weren’t telepathic, but the Jedi were beginning to suspect that they shared a ‘silent’ language at a frequency outside the range of most near-human species ability to hear.

“We find your argument very reasonable, Padawan Jeisel, and we thank you for your council.” Innan says, bowing his neck. “May we recuse for the day?”

“I’m sure you have much now to reconsider.” Obi-Wan says, bowing back. “We understand that your government will have to evaluate this new information carefully.”

The Moia accept this gracefully, Satta shooting them all a brilliant, if sharp, smile, before their elders escort them away.

Sian lets out a huff that puffs her fringe away from her face, and slumps a little.

“That was amazing.” Padawan Tanwaze bounces.

“It truly was.” Obi-Wan grins, jostling Sian’s shoulder and reaching for her hand, giving it a squeeze. She squeezes back in thanks.

“Very well spoken, Padawan Jeisel.” Master Vumoyo commends her. “Though I’m not sure how our senators will feel about your recommendation to delay the petition.”

Sian flushes dark sienna, iridescent blue eyes flashing as she glances over to see Senator Valorum and Senator Macell quietly and fervently arguing in the alcove set aside for them to observe from.

“Should I have asked their permission?” She inquires. "I only wanted to ensure that the Moia benefit from their inclusion in the Republic. That is the point, isn't it?"

“Are you a puppet or a person?” Master Vumoyo inquires.

“I’m a person. But I’m here on behalf of the Galactic Senate.” She protests.

“Yes, but _you_ are in the negotiators chair, and not they.” Master Vumoyo says. “Which means it is your considerations that matter.”

She swallows tightly, looking far less certain of herself than she had just minutes ago.

“Hey.” Obi-Wan bumps her elbow. “ _Our_ considerations.” He says. “None of us are here alone.”

She smiles weakly at that, grateful, and Padawan Tanwaze jumps in. “Yeah!”

“I only mean to remind you to consider your positions carefully, Padawan Jeisel.” Master Vumoyo says. “And to be sure of your decisions on all sides. Others will question you, your choices, your actions. You must be certain, so that when they do so, you do not have to question yourself.”

Sian dips her head humbly. “I understand, Master Vumoyo.” She says. “Thank you.”

He smiles, the scars stretching. “Let this be a lesson to all of you.” He says, eyeing the boys, who nod – Jamal a little too enthusiastically, but then, the twi’lek boy is only ten.

“Of course, master.” They murmur.

~*~

Mace Windu does not know what to do.

He is frozen, stricken, as many around him are, by the brutality of the carnage they just witnessed, by the chaotic, jagged snarls in the Force, whipping at their shields with bands of darkness and pain.

“Master!” His padawan shouts, running up to him from the cross corridor, and Mace moves, whirling to stop her.

“Depa, no!” He holds out a hand, but the teenager stumbles to a halt beside him, eyes wide on the blood and the bodies. She trembles, once, and then shoves her way past him, to his utter shock.

Master Krell is still screaming.

“Clear a path for the Healers! Now!” Padawan Billaba commands, her spirit blazing in the Force, cutting light through the darkness and violence. Mace latches on to it, and rushes to her side, though he hesitates between Krell and Naasade while Depa naturally tends first to Padawan Vos, being the youngest and the one her skills could most likely assist.

Mace, for all his depths of power and understanding, was never a healer. He lacked the inner calm necessary for such talents, but where his talents in the Force failed, his master made sure his hands-on skill could muster through. Mace loosens his tabbards and belt and pulls them free, sliding off his robe and bunching it up, and pressing it against the deep, charred wound in Naasade’s side. He wraps it with his bindings, and tightens it down as much as he is able. He pauses briefly, resting a hand on the other man’s chest, and tries to send him pulses of energy in the Force, tries to bolster the faltering strength within him.

It’s a shaky and futile effort on his part, and the younger man turns away, towards the other master. Just the sight of Pong Krells twisted limbs is jarring, and it makes Mace’s stomach turn, but he pushes beyond the horror and discomfort, and moves to force the other being to stop thrashing.

Krell howls in pain, and Mace tries to command him to sleep, but the other master lashes out.

“NO! _No_!”

“Master Krell!” Mace snaps, struggling to pin the thrashing besalisk down.

“I will not be defeated! I will _not_!” The besalisk rages, clearly delirious, and Mace grunts as claws tear down his side. His own pain, at least, Mace can escape, though he shivers at the striking cold.

“Master!” Depa gasps.

“Stay with Vos.” Mace commands, eerily aware of the blood soaking into his knees.

“ _MOVE_!”

Mace has never been so profoundly relieved to hear the charging roar of Master Healer Vokara Che in his life.

She moves towards him, and receives a brutal kick to her stomach that sends her crashing back into her fellow healers as Krell roars. Mace shudders at the sickening slap of flesh as the already broken bone in the besalisks leg tears through the meat of his leg for the action.

“ _Sleep_ , kriff it!” Mace snaps desperately, forcing his torso back to the floor as he writhed. “Give in to the karking pain and sleep.”

“I WILL NOT BE DEFEATED!” Krell roars, and Darkness lashes out, rife with fear, tearing Mace away with brutal Force before he can guard himself against it. Cold drives into his body, and something tears at the edges of his mind, scrabbling like a starving animal at his shields. “I WILL NOT BE-“

Vokara Che has lunged, and the besalisk spasms once, before shuddering into stillness, the hypospray expertly placed over the major artery in his thigh.

“That,” The healer huffs raggedly. “will be enough of that. Get them on stretchers.” She barks, and turns to Mace, locking eyes with him, with a demanding question, and then her gaze scours the hall, and the wide-eyed, shaken witnesses.

She doesn’t ask.

The healers are quick and efficient, and they take the wounded away within moments, leaving only…

Only the blood staining the corridor, and the miasma of darkness and fury leeching through the air.

Mace gathers himself, trying to burn away the touch of darkness, the violating taint of it, and startles when fingers reach for his, and stares down at his Padawan, who is still brimming with _light_.

Her eyes of full of worry and resolution. None of his doubts and fears are reflected back at him, and he leans on her strength, her certainty, and he can breathe again.

His breath hitches, and he is reminded on the scoring lines on his side.

“I’ll take you to the healers, Master.” Depa says, gently guiding him out of the bloody scene.

Mace hesitates, glancing around at the stricken pair of knights pressed back against the wall, at the shock-pale padawan clutching a crying younglings hand, and a solemn-faced elder who had turned away from the scene and was trembling, one hand braced against the wall.

It is one thing to catch glimpses of dark and violent futures, to never be free of those turning points in fate, haunting everyone he sees, and another watch blood spilled in their home, by their own.

 _What did you bring with you, Naasade_? He wonders, shaken to the core.

“Master.” Depa prompts, hovering at his side.

Mace swallows, and reaches for certainty within himself. It comes skittishly, but it comes.

“Close off this corridor.” Mace orders the two knights. “See that a service droid is summoned. Padawan, youngling, come with us.” He says more gently. “Elder?”

The elder shakes their head, not turning around. “I will go…I will go…sit for a while.” The elder murmurs raspily, furred ears bent low. “I will go sit for a while.” They repeat, slowly shuffling off.

Mace grinds his jaw for the pressure in his chest, the rising flight of helplessness, and presses hand to the claw-marks in his side, hissing in through his teeth, but letting the pain ground him.

He takes a steadying breath, then another, and lets Depa guide him to the Healers.


	15. Chapter 15

Obi-Wan knows what it’s like to cry from anger, and that is exactly the sound he hears – the emotion that he feels pouring through the Force, when winds his way along the garden path, occasionally trailing his fingers over yellow-green leaves and corkscrew branches.

Part of him thinks he should hold back, and wait, but there is also a wriggling in his gut that tells him that she’d rather _know_ someone witnessed it, if someone was to witness it.

Those kind of tears accompanied a profound sense of isolation, and when Obi-Wan had felt that way, hiding in the planetarium, he’d been both desperate for comfort and too ashamed to seek it out.

Obi-Wan doesn’t say anything, because he can’t think of anything that won’t sound trite, but he walks under an arbor of fat yellow berries and into the secretive little den shaped into the bushes there. He sits down beside her, eyes kept passively away as she scrubs her face, stiffening to glare at him.

When he can feel that glare, that’s when he looks at her.

“Are you mad at him?” Obi-Wan asks, of her father.

“Of course I’m mad at him!” Satine snaps, tear tracks forming light trails through the soft dust of make-up powder on her fair skin. “He left me. _Again_.”

“He wants you to be safe.” Obi-Wan reminds her, knowing she already knows that. In her head, at least.

“Then he should have trained me like he trained Bo-Katan!” Satine argues.

Obi-Wan is a little stumped by that one. Satine looks at the scrunched confusion on his face and rolls her eyes, brushing away another loose tear. “My older sister.”

“Why didn’t he?” Obi-Wan inquires, puzzled by that. Her features were delicate, but there was nothing weak about her, not in her posture or in her character. A light emitting insect glows for a brief spark, catching both of their gazes as they watch it buzz, land on a berry, and fade.

Satine takes a couple measured breathes. Not the slow, deep inhales of a meditative state, but the counting breathes used to regain equilibrium, to coerce the body back into rhythm. “It’s difficult to train your daughter when you aren’t ever home, or when you send her halfway across the galaxy.”

“But you’re…”Obi-Wan pauses, choosing his words. “You’re Mandalorian, shouldn’t someone have stepped in for your training?”

“Bo-Katan tried, but she…she was a child herself, training another child. My uncles are dead. My mother is gone. Who else would my father dare trust? And then he sent me away and…and Bo-Katan left.” Her lips trembles, and she turns her face away. She crumbles a little, another bit-down sob escaping her. She scrubs at her face again, and forces herself to breathe.

“I’m sorry.” Obi-Wan says softly. He hesitates, but eventually reached out and lays a hand against her arm, careful not to make it a grip, just…just comfort.

“Everyone seems to be.” Satine finally says, voice wavering, and tight with anger. “Everyone is always so sorry.”

“She’s your sister.” Obi-Wan says. “Surely you’ll see her again? It isn’t permanent.”

“She joined the Death Watch.” Satine says bluntly, turning back to him.

Obi-Wan is shocked by that revelation, but doesn’t pry, with Satine studying him with her watery, silver-blue eyes, rimmed in red. “She divorced our father and cast off his name. But it’s my name too.” She says, voice flat and dull, though her body shivers. “It’s why he’s decided that now is the time to see me, after three years. He doesn’t want to lose both of us. And he saw me, and then he left.”

Obi-Wan doesn’t say sorry again, and Satine continues to stare at him, gaze utterly unreadable.

“I know why they do what they do, my father and my sister.” She murmurs, voice rasping. “I know why they’re fighting and what they’re fighting for.”

Another light-bug flares, and they track it through the leaves until it fades.

“I just wish they’d stop.” Satine says, staring at the spot where the light went out. “I just wish they’d all stop fighting, so we could all go home.”

Obi-Wan can physically feel the ache of the grief she is wrapping tight and pressing down, and he bites his lip, wanting to do something, needing to do something.

“I can’t end the Mandalorian Civil War.” Obi-Wan blurts. “But what can I do? For you? To help.”

Satine blink and turns her gaze back on him, severe and critical, as it was when they were introduced.

“Do you believe in Mandalore?” She asks, voice a whisper. “I don’t think I do anymore. I’ve spent my whole life watching my people ruin what made us who we are, one way or another.”

Obi-Wan struggles with the gravity of her question, which seemed so simple and yet covered something so vast and inexplicable. The Duke was Mandalore, the Old Clans were Mandalore, The Death Watch, The New Mandalorians, the True Mandalorians – all of it was Mandalore. How do you believe in all of that? So much chaos and contention.

Obi-Wan licks his lips, trying to find something to say, and Satine stares at him, her gaze cool and stubborn. Obi-Wan stares back at her, and in an instant, he knows that look. That look is the steely defiance in Jango Fett’s gaze. The grim determination in Master Ben’s. The hard calculation in Adonai Kryze’s.

The look that says _Here is where I stand. Come and face me_.

And that’s what Mandalore is. That’s what allies two strangers on a spice frigate in wild space who would otherwise be sworn enemies. It’s what drives a man to cast a name off when it is no longer one he can wear, and gives another man the strength to uphold one he isn’t certain he still deserves.

“Adversity, honor, enlightenment.” Obi-Wan says, knowing to his core that _that_ was Mandalore. “Yes.” He says. “Yes, I believe in Mandalore.”

“Just like that?” Satine whispers, sounding heartbroken.

“No.” Obi-Wan replies, earning a surprised look. “Nothing of Mandalore comes just like that. It’s _Mandalore_. You have to fight for it.”

She bites her lip, brows furrowing in frustration, and Obi-Wan rubs his thumb in a soothing half circle along her arm, earning her gaze again. “Hey.” He says quietly. “You _are_ Mandalorian, Satine Kryze. Which means you fight on your own terms, and no one else’s.”

A light enters her gaze, smoothing out the pain in her being as she settles him with another cool, evaluative stare, the kind that makes him slightly uncomfortable for all that he can do nothing but stare back.

“And there is more than one way to fight.” She says, with sharp certainty, though her eyes still water and she has to take another fortifying breath.

And then she smiles, and Obi-Wan is helpless but to smile back.

~*~

“Is it not discouraging to call it the Labyrinth?” Shmi inquires quietly, though her hands trace over the hand-hewn stone around them. The passages ahead are narrow, and dim, lit only by light reflecting down through veins of crystal from far above, but she can see the polish of carved pillars gleaming faintly, and the well worn path smoothed over by one traveler after another, generation by generation by generation.

“You are seeking that which is not easily found.” Chirrut replies. “What else should such a trial be called?

“A labyrinth suggests that I can be lost in it.” Shmi replies, lighting him with her sharp gaze.

“Can’t all of us be lost, chasing reflections of ourselves?” Chirrut inquires slyly.

Shmi sighs lightly, and Shaak Ti knows her padawan is occasionally frustrated at the evasiveness of those around her, when all she seeks is a straightforward answer to a simple query. She understands metaphor with a masters grasp, but riddles seem to irritate her.

“You can’t lose my amu!” Anakin protests, settled carefully on Shaak Ti’s shoulders, his grip on her montrals uncomfortable, but nothing any togruta mother hasn’t dealt with for a thousand generations. “She’s _mine_. I need her.”

“And I have every faith she will come back to you, little sunshine!” Chirrut says, smiling cheerily at the boy, who scowls. “Don’t you?”

Anakin looks instinctively to his mother, biting his lip, and everything about Shmi hesitates.

It is not this moment here that they fear, but the lifetime of moments behind them which tells them that such as he has proposed was never a promise either of them could make. Shaak Ti feels a deep pain below her sternum, looking at the braid behind Shmi’s ear, because it is not a promise she may be able to make in the future either.

“We are with each other always, Ani.” Shmi reminds her son, an old lesson, lifting her hand to her heart, then her lips, then to him, as he mirrors the gesture with a child’s awkward grace, made more so by his bony chest being pressed against Shaak Ti’s horns. They tangle fingers, for a moment, and share a soft Skywalker smile before Shmi lets her hand drop, and looks to her master.

Shaak Ti tries to smile, and finds herself unusually solemn. _It’s a silly trial_ , she thinks. _A younglings trial_.

She is not afraid, she does not feel a sense of danger or darkness or warning, simply something…apprehensive.

The last time she felt like this, she was choosing between the boy she thought was meant to be her padawan and the woman who stood before her now.

But today isn’t about her choices. Today is about Shmi’s.

“The Force is with me, _Marrat_.” Shmi says, her dark gaze utterly serene.

“Yes.” Shaak replies, her muscles softening, tension bleeding away into the Force as she bows her head and presses the curve of her brow to Shmi’s, just for a moment. “The Force is with you.”

Chirrut guides Shmi over to the threshold when the padawan and master part and murmurs something in her ear that makes her dark eyes flash with a similar humor to his. Chirrut clasps her hands between his, murmuring a blessing, and directs her over the threshold. For a flicker of a second, it seems to gleam, and Shaak Ti can hear the Force whisper, voices overlapping voices the way paint overlaps paint. They are all saying the same thing, but Shaak Ti can’t make out the words.

“Can you hear it, _Amu’a_?” Anakin whispers in her ear, voice brimming with awe and excitement.

“The Force of others, little sunshine.” Chirrut says, rejoining them as they wait, his footsteps barely making a sound against the mosaic tiles beneath their feet. “Guiding her way, as it guides all of us.”

Shaak Ti frowns a little at the way he says it. “All become one in the Force.”

Chirrut lifts a brow in her direction, his gentle face serene. “The Force is one, Master Ti, but _all_?” He shakes his head lightly. “The Jedi may lay their hands on the tapestry that wraps the world, but do you truly believe you know all the many patterns of what you cannot see?”


	16. Chapter 16

Shmi can feel the charge against her skin as she walks, deeper and deeper into the crystal catacombs beneath the Holy City of Jedha, raising all the fine hairs on her body. Glancing flashes of light catch her eye, reflections of crystal off of crystal, shimmering and vanishing. Whispers tease at her ears, distant songs she can’t quite catch the tune of. This place is old, not the world, not the temple, but the _memories_ here.

They are old and arcane and _primal_.

She listens to the rasp for several minutes before she recognizes her own intensive breathing. It isn’t fear, or adrenaline. Shmi can feel the sandstorm in her blood, could feel power waiting for her to grasp as a thickening in the air. She takes a set of narrow steps even deeper, so old the shape of them was blurring, trails her fingers through the dust of an untouched corridor, and emerges in a small chamber, shaped like a pyramid.

The floor glows with dull sunshine beaming down from the peak, warm and golden, and the walls are all polished, milky crystal, like smoke trapped in glass.

Shmi walks up to her opposite reflection, realizing with awe that there was no dust here, no film of age, despite being buried centuries below the foundations of Jedha.

She does not look like slave. She looks young, and strong, her braid a dark streak on her shoulder, her yellow-and-white tunics illuminated by the glow of the room, her red-brown leggings and boots dark and rich like clay. The longer Shmi studies that reflection, the more it looks like a stranger.

Unsettled, she turns around, and discovers that the entrance is gone, and she is faced once more by a smooth wall.

“Whose face is that?” This reflection asks, and Shmi startles to hear her own voice. The reflection is not quite a reflection. It is Shmi, but it is not her now. The woman before her wears sand-cloth, dull brown and worn thin, patched more than once with mismatched thread. Her hair falls loose, a few frayed braids only just keeping it out of her face, and blood trails down her leg.

“It’s my face.” Shmi whispers, clutching her stomach at the bitter slap of the recollection of the child she never had.

The woman stares back at her, young face gaunt and grimy. “That isn’t what I asked.”

“It’s my face.” Another reflection echoes, and Shmi looks over her right shoulder. The woman standing there is clad in soft white silk, flowing and shear and wrapped around a body that is bruised and beaten and starved, lips chapped, hair shorn roughly to the skin, bald and scabbed where the clippers nicked carelessly. Red birds are tattooed across her face, branded across her hands. A broken collar hangs from her neck, and water runs over her skin in rivulets.

This one Shmi knows, in the way that all the Amavikka know. This one is Shmi, and this one is Ekkreth, and this one is Ar-Amu.

“Or it could be mine.” Another whispers, and that power Shmi could feel in the catacombs she can now taste on her lips, as if she had spoken the words, and that’s what they were made of.

Shmi looks the other way, over her left shoulder.

She wears a cloak, thick and richly black, but her arms are bare, slipping from it. Her hair is glossy, and streaked with aged silver. Black marks her lips, and around her eyes, and those eyes glow like coals. Around her wrist, wrought in gleaming gold, is the effigy of a Krayt Dragon.

“It’s my face.” Shmi repeats quietly.

“But who are you?” They ask in turn.

“I am Shmi Skywalker.” Shmi replies. _She-Who-Walks-The-Sky-And-Knows-The-Way._

“And who is that?” The two on either side ask.

Shmi looks between them, confused. The dark one smiles, the way a sand-snake smiles, all pretty gleaming over striking death. “It’s a choice you have yet to make, darling us.” She purrs. Shmi stares back into her raging, glowing eyes, and sees someone who truly loves her, someone who isn’t afraid, someone who will never, ever again be enslaved.

Sometimes, Shmi still falls asleep wondering if she hasn’t traded one chain for another. She’ll wake up still uncertain of the answer.

But Shmi also looks at her and sees hate, cruelty, bitterness, revenge. She doesn’t see a woman she wants to have raise her son.

“Ah.” The dark reflections smile turns wry, edged with coldness.

Shmi turns her gaze away, and looks at the woman before her. The slave who has nothing, not even herself. The woman from whom everything could be taken. She is afraid, and lost, and grieving.

Shmi looks over her other shoulder, at the reflection that is defiant, and enduring, and selfless.   The version of her capable of giving up everything that she is for wat she believes in.

They are all _absolutes_.

Shmi is a person. She is real. She lives, and she falters, and she finds her way stumbling and blind.

There is nothing in a person that can ever be _absolute_.

Shmi turns around, back to the reflection that is a reflection that is someone she does not recognize, and yet is herself.

“I don’t know who I am.” Shmi confesses. “But I know who I am not.”

Sharp brown eyes gaze back at her, and a quiet Skywalker smile blooms on their face.

Shmi is distracted by a glimmer and turns. When she looks back, the reflections are gone, and the passage continues before her. Shmi takes a breath, huffs, and walks through it.

It looks like a library, cavernous and almost impossibly deep. Statues of ancient heroes form the pillars, and in the place of books, collections of raw stone which glitters with millions of crystal shards, cascading the entire vast space with a shimmering web of shifting hues of light.

Shmi had cried the when Ben had woken her in the earliest hours, near terrifying her in the process, and led her down to the gardens, where she could stand in the rain for the first time in her life. Mud had seeped between her toes, and a chill crept into skin still not used to a world without two blistering suns, but elation and awe had filled her to the brim.

That same brilliant, powerful feeling takes her now, and Shmi walks through fields of light, which dance across her and everything around her. She follows one thrumming intangible thread after another, variants of color deepening, flashing, darting away, leading her down the long hall, twisting around pillars, shuffling through aisles. In the dust, and here there was dust, she could see the years between herself and the last person to walk here – though some places no one had ever walked since the dust settled in.

Shmi sees it, in a stack on a shelf above her head, two points glittering like binary stars. Shmi moves a long ladder, feeling the grain of the petrified wood press against her palms, both lighter and heavier than she thinks it ought to be.

She never doubts that it can hold her weight as she climbs.

There, uncut and bound by red stone, a shard glinting gold, and one flawlessly clear.

Shmi picks up the cluster and presses it to her chest with the same sense of belonging with which she had first held her son.

 _Oh_. Her eyes prick, and she feels like laughing. _So that’s what Obi-Wan meant_.

~*~

“I’m not sure the rhythm of that was quite what it could have been.” Padme remarks, nibbling on toast at the breakfast table, chewing delicately as she tries to decide whether or not she liked the yellow jam smeared on top.

“Well, it’s Mandalorian poetry.” Obi-Wan explains, trying to add cream to his tea, peruse his datapad, and prevent Padawan Tanwaze from putting an elbow in the egg dish. What he’s fairly certain, at least, is an egg dish. “Translation doesn’t quite do it justice.”

“I thought your Master removed you from poetry?” Sian inquires, eyeing the faint blush on Padme’s face as the younger girl glanced between her plate and Obi-Wan.

“From the class,” Obi-Wan agrees. “Not from learning it.”

“Then why does everyone keep saying he’s-“

Obi-Wan groans, and scoops some of the egg dish into his mouth.

It is not, he thinks, an egg dish. He’s not entirely sure what it is, and he swallows it hurriedly.

“Please stop listening to what everyone says about my master.” Obi-Wan pleads.

Padme tilts her head curiously, glancing between the two of them with a contemplative reserve that gives a glimpse as to why she was one of the most promising Junior Legislators of Naboo. “Do people not like your master?” She inquires.

“They don’t _understand_ my master.” Obi-Wan says, slightly snippy in his defensiveness.

“His master is a complete _rogue_ of a Jedi, _shrouded_ in mystery-“ Sian grins at the younger girl, who grins back at Obi-Wan groans.

“Please stop.”

“Ruggedly handsome-“

“Sian!”

“Dangerously talented-“

Obi-Wan covers his face.

“And wretchedly scandalous.” Sian crows. “A stranger who appeared out of the black, snatching up a padawan on the cusp of reassignment, challenging masters left and right, bending the very tenets of the Jedi Order-“

“Do you write trashy romance novels in your free time, Padawan Jeisel?” Obi-Wan snipes, and Padme giggles.

“I should.” Sian retorts, jabbing her utensil in his direction and flipping her brown and white braid over her shoulder.

“Is he really like that?” Padme asks, beaming and thrilled.

“No!” Obi-Wan protests.

“ _Yes_!” The other padawans all cry.

“You are talking about Obi-Wan’s master?” Satine inquires, approaching the table. She looks a little wan this morning, but she smiles at the quick flurry of silent greetings as she joins them for breakfast. “The Mandalorian Jedi?”

“Yes.” Padme pipes up, blushing at the older girls cool, but still friendly regard.

Satine eyes Obi-Wan up and down. “He certainly _sounds_ Mandalorian.” Satine remarks, lips twisting up at the corner. Obi-Wan grumbles, defeated on all sides, and Sian snorts into her cup.

“Can I get back to reading poetry now?” Obi-Wan pleads plaintively, earning a rolled eye from his devaronian friend and a pout from Jepas, who had been enjoying the entertainment.

“I can recommend some volumes on Nubian poems, if you’d like.” Padme suggests. “If you’re making a study of it.”

“Hmm.” Obi-Wan studies her, and she proves that she can smooth over her expression with the skill of a professional when she really tries. “Romantic sap, or tragedies?” Obi-Wan guesses.

“Odes to Heroes.” Padme says, in a tone surprisingly sly for a ten year old. Obi-Wan narrows his eyes at her. She gives a prim and dainty shrug. “I’m a fan of history, Padawan Kenobi. It tells us where we’ve been. It proves where we have yet to go.”

“Well said.” Satine praises the girl, who loses all semblance of stately composure and ducks her head, blushing again at the praise. Obi-Wan smiles, thinking it’s adorable.

“Padawan Kenobi.”

Obi-Wan twists in his seat, looking back at Master Vumoyo as he took a few hurried steps down onto the veranda where breakfast had been laid out for them. His face is blank, his presence in the Force was blank, but when his eyes met Obi-Wans…

He looked so very _sorry_.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Challenge](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21974242) by [antonomasia09](https://archiveofourown.org/users/antonomasia09/pseuds/antonomasia09)




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